


Objects in Rubble

by buttercups3, lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Archaeology, Collaboration, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Militia Era, Multi, Out of Order Chapters, Out of Order Chronology, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Philadelphia, Threesome - F/M/M, references to past torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 91,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years after the nuclear destruction of Philadelphia, a team of archaeologists excavate the remains of Independence Hall to shed light on the lives of President Monroe, General Matheson, and their mysterious captive Rachel Matheson, who may have undermined the Monroe Republic from within. The objects uncovered in the rubble, portals to the past, help to explain why this mighty empire fell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> We're back! After weeks of research and debate, we present to you our latest experiment: an archaeological trip in time with a spotlight on smutty RM2. ;) We're very excited to share this experiment with all of you and can't wait to hear what you think!
> 
> Point of view will alternate from chapter to chapter and although lovesrogue36/carlier36 specializes in Rachel and buttercups3 specializes in the boys, most chapters have both our fingerprints on them.
> 
> The floorplans at the end of the introduction are based on a combination of the actual layout of Independence Hall and a few assumptions based on what is actually seen on the show.

**The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania Department of Archaeology**

Date: April 8, 2044  
Project: City of Philadelphia, Excavation of Atomic Site

The exact circumstances of the fall of the Monroe Republic, co-founded in 2017 by President Sebastian Monroe and Commanding General Miles Matheson, remain obscured. Historians maintain that in 2022, General Miles Matheson staged a failed coup and assassination attempt on Monroe before vanishing. Upon Matheson’s reappearance in 2027, the two former friends waged war with each other, until in 2028, the president disappeared while on campaign in Colorado. On April 3, 2028, two nuclear missiles destroyed Philadelphia and the Georgia Federation capital at Atlanta. Though President Monroe was initially blamed for the destruction, a myriad of conspiracy theories arose in the months and years that followed.

This excavation of Independence Hall, former capitol building of the Monroe Republic, can provide few insights into the nuclear event; however, it is hoped that archaeological evidence will illuminate the years leading up to Matheson’s attempted deposition of his founding brother. After seven months of excavation within the city limits, with a pause for winter recess, the field assistants reached the site of the Hall.

When Philadelphia was seized by the Monroe Militia in early 2017, Independence Hall was one of few official buildings still largely intact and made a natural choice for a base of operations. With the establishment of the Republic, the building came to act as office and public hall and was inhabited at various points in time by President Monroe, General Matheson, and Rachel Porter Matheson, the general’s sister-in-law (rumored). According to reports by household staff and high-ranking officers with access to the restricted areas of Independence Hall, Rachel Matheson resided in the Hall from 2019-2021 and again from 2022-2027. Given the timing of her occupancy, she likely played a significant role in the dissolution of relations between Matheson and Monroe.

Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistants: Kendra Chang, George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:

  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



Condition of Structure:

  * Brick walls are moderately cracked
  * Second floor is somewhat unsteady and most likely suffered structural damage
  * All glass windows blown out in the blast
  * Window and door frames heavily damaged
  * Clock tower is missing top two floors (only as high as the third floor remains)
  * Former courtroom severely burned in flash ignition
  * North-facing wall and west breezeway heavily damaged



Floorplans:


	2. Book, De Figuris Veneris: Manuel d’erotologie classique, 1906

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: June 22, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: Kendra Chang  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact: Book, De Figuris Veneris: Manuel d’erotologie classique, 1906  
□ Feature: _________________________________________________

Description: Antique leather book, written by Friedrich Karl Froberg and translated into French, featuring 20 erotic illustrations by Paul Avril.  
Location: 2E [(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Badly torn, but with a number of pages still fully intact, several of which bear handwriting in the margins.  
[ Plate XVIII Illustration (NSFW)](http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%C3%89douard-Henri_Avril_%2829%29.jpg%20)

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
N/A

**Winter 2020: Rachel**

The snow outside has turned to slush and though the skies remain perpetually gray, the temperature has risen to almost 50 according to the little mercury thermometer on my window. At first the boys refused to give me one, probably for fear I’d break it open and poison their whiskeys (or myself), but they caved when it started to get cold out. I tap my fingernail against the glass tube and sigh, watching several Militia members trudge through the snow in the park. They’re probably miserable but I can’t help feeling a little pang of jealousy.

Lifting myself off the window seat, I tug a blanket tighter around my shoulders and pad across the bedroom in my stocking feet. The Hall is quiet and empty today; the boys are overseeing taxes being brought into the city. By the wagonload. I didn’t bother to argue with them this morning that those diamonds and pelts were taken mostly from families who can barely afford to feed their kids.

On either side of the barred set of double doors beside my poster bed, bookshelves are bowed with books I’ve mostly read. Days like today though, when I’m left to my own devices, I can almost always find one I haven’t noticed before. I skim a fingertip over the spines, an eclectic mix of books they’ve hoarded for me: Danielle Steele, Jules Verne and Jane Austen. Neither of them ever comes home to Philadelphia these days without something new for my collection.

Most of the books here, though, were already lying around the Hall or the Athenaeum down the street when the Militia conquered Philly. They’re obscure antiques for the most part and my finger trips over one with a leather spine, sandwiched between _Treasure Island_ and _A Brief History of Time_. I slide it out, blowing the dust off.

“Manuel d’erotologie classique,” I read aloud, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Thumbing the book open, I quickly realize it’s entirely in French and though I am bored, surely there must be something in English (or at least Spanish) that I haven’t read. But I skim past an illustration that stops me in surprise.

I’ve never been shy about sex but I feel a blush creep over my cheeks anyway. It dawns on me that ‘erotologie’ probably means something like ‘erotica’, if these illustrations are anything to go by. Walking slowly across the room, absorbed in my find, I sink into one of the blue armchairs by the fire, the blanket slipping down off my shoulders. Suddenly, I’m far from cold.

It’s after dinner by the time the boys trudge down the hall between our bedrooms and I’m already tucked in bed, a hot water bottle at my feet and several blankets piled over me. There’s a quiet mumbling (perhaps they’re too worn out to care about the no-kissing-in-front-of-the-guards rule) and then two doors rattle open and shut. Glancing up from the book propped open on my knees, I stare across the room at the low-burning fire for long minutes and listen for their tired footsteps. Just about the time I think they must both have crashed in their own beds, there’s a shuffling in the office and I snap the book shut on my finger as they tumble through the doors.

They’ve stripped down to their socks, pants and cotton shirts in their own rooms and Bass scratches at his curls, groaning aloud as he sinks onto the edge of the bed, flinging an arm over my shoulders. My lips twitch into a smile: I can’t help being glad to see them relaxed. It lets me pretend for a few minutes that this _relationship_ is based on something normal and healthy, even though we are far from it. I lift one hand to lace my fingers through his, still holding my place in the book with the other. “Hi,” he mumbles against my lips.

Miles shuffles over to the fireplace, stoking the embers and tossing on a couple of logs. I can feel his eyes on us though, Bass’ tongue lazily edging in my mouth, and it’s hard to tell without looking if Miles’ stare is born of jealousy or arousal so I pull back a few inches.

“How was tax day?” I ask dryly, just barely peeking my eyes open.

Bass takes my jaw in his hand, fixing me with a glare. “Too tired to argue.” Miles grunts his agreement from across the room and Bass seizes my mouth again, plunging his tongue in this time.

“Not argue,” I protest against his mouth, though I’m already melting into him. “ _Debate_.”

“Uh huh.” Bass pulls away from the kiss, tugging the book out of my hands despite my protests. “What are you reading?”

He flips it open to the spot I had held marked with my finger, Plate XVIII, and stops cold, turning wide, sparkling blue eyes on me.

“It was on the shelf!” I protest immediately before swatting his arm. “See, proof you don’t even know what’s in here. Well-read, my ass.”

“Oh, and you were already intimately familiar with… _Manuel d’erotologie classique_?” He arches an eyebrow at me with a smirk before barking Miles’ name. “Miles! Come here.”

I groan but Bass only laughs and tucks me under his arm. “Oh, please. You were begging to get caught,” he teases, kissing the top of my head as Miles slumps on the bed on my other side.

He flings an arm over me, large fingers twisting in the blue satin of my pajamas. I twist between them to press a hand to his cheek, kissing him until we’re both breathless. When I open my eyes, his are just fluttering open, long eyelashes dark and shadowy on his cheekbones. God, he’s pretty. He’d blush and stammer and protest in a manly fashion if I said that out loud but he is.

Miles breaks my moment with a, “So what are we looking at? Porn?” and Bass crows, a grin splitting his face. I can feel my blush spread quickly down my chest and if I weren’t trapped between the two of them, I’d pull the blankets up over my head.

“Pretty much!” Bass passes the book to Miles, open to a drawing of a rather debauched-looking orgy. _Is there really any other kind of orgy?_ I can’t help wondering.

Miles’ dark, sleepy eyes widen, instantly awake. “Shit, Rach,” he laughs, tapping the page over a woman with her head thrown back and a man between her legs. “This what you do all day when we’re out?”

“No!” I protest, kneejerk, before rolling my eyes. “Well, the book is new. But the fantasies aren’t.” I surge up to draw Miles’ earlobe between my lips, stubbled jaw scraping my cheek. Bass slips his hand beneath cool satin, long fingers tracing each one of my ribs.

“What else is in there?” he mumbles into my shoulder and Miles dutifully flips through it, past two men fucking in a bed with the Pyramids in the distance, a woman sprawled open with a man standing between her thighs and a blond spread out on a fur, sucking a cock. Bass taps the last one. “I like that one,” he says in my ear and I can practically feel him wink.

“You would,” I laugh, my embarrassment quickly fading. “Greedy bastard. Like Miles doesn’t go down on you practically every other day. Now you want me too?”

Bass latches onto my pulse point and I arch up into him like a damn cat. “Who says it’s supposed to be me? Maybe I want to watch you suck Miles off,” he corrects, earning himself a grunt of approval from Miles.

“There anything for three in here?” Miles asks, thumbing through pages and pages of French text.

“She was staring at it when we came in,” Bass rumbles against my throat and Miles lifts an eyebrow at me.

“Plate XVIII,” I admit after a beat. Miles smirks but doesn’t call me out on knowing the exact number. It gets boring and lonely up here by myself, all right?

The room is filled with the crackle of the fire and the shuffling of turning pages for a moment before Miles lands on the right one. He sucks in a short breath, turning very slightly pink, and I bite my lip over a smile.

“Huh,” he manages finally, staring at three bodies tangled together on the page.

Bass chuckles, reaching up to run his fingers through Miles’ hair. “Looks good, right?”

“ _Yeah_.” He shoots us a sideways glance, his free hand sliding over my thigh beneath the covers.

“Let’s do it.” Miles and I both turn to look at Bass with matching raised eyebrows.

“You want to act out a drawing in a book of French porn? _Really_ , Bass?” I ask, even as he shoves his hand higher beneath my top, cupping a breast.

His eyes twinkle and I have to wonder just what exactly has put him in such a good mood. “Come on, looks like fun.”

“I don’t think I can even get my leg up that high!” I laugh, but he’s already dragging me to the edge of the bed and yanking his shirt off. When he emerges, his curls are a mess and I can’t help trailing my fingers through them. Bass stands between my thighs, tugging me against his bare chest, and his long, graceful hands skate over me down to the mattress to squeeze my ass.

“Get over here and report for duty, General Matheson,” he teases against the curve of my neck.

My hands slide up over Bass’ bare shoulders and my eyes drift shut, listening for the little hitch in his breath when I dig into the knots in his muscles. I’ve come to love that sound. It’s so Bass; he loves to be touched. Miles is self-conscious, I know, about me comparing the two of them but he doesn’t understand: they just affect me in different ways. Where he’s all dark hair and pale scars, stitched into me in ways I couldn’t untie if I wanted to, Bass is free with his smiles and a little wild. He’s the sort of boy (yes, boy) I would have dated before Ben. Before Mathesons.

A large hand moves over mine and I peek my eyes open to find Miles standing at Bass’ back, an arm around his waist and a smirk on his face. He shoves his palm in between us, cupping Bass’ cock through his pants, and Bass keens against my throat. Miles winks at me at the sound and I laugh softly, tangling my fingers with his on Bass’ shoulder. Miles loves when we’re vocal, maybe just because he isn’t.

His hips shift against Bass and he whispers something in his ear about, “Are you ready for me, baby?” Bass grins, reaching for the button of his pants but I stall him with my hands on his wrists.

“Wait-”

Two heads turn to look at me and I flush under their stares. “I-”

“We don’t have to,” Miles nearly trips over himself to reassure me and I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. Miles’ ideas about consent are a maze of inconsistencies. He would never push me into sex, not on his worst day, but ever since he brought me to Philly, he treats me like a China doll when it comes to what I want. _Good_ , I think, _He should feel guilty_. But that’s a dangerous road and I squash it, shaking my head.

“No, I do! I just… I want Miles in me tonight. I want Miles in me and-” I hold back a blush, if that’s possible, and try to remain assertive. Navigating a threesome is loaded with more landmines than you might think and our twisted captive/captor dynamics make voicing requests all the more tricky.

There’s a moment of quiet, of Bass glancing wide-eyed at Miles like I’ve said something to set him off, before Miles nudges him aside to step between my legs. He scoots me right to the edge of the bed and I swallow hard, resting my hands on his chest, the thin cotton there stretched over his bony ribs.

“And Bass in me?” he asks, one hand braced on the bed behind me and his forehead resting almost on mine.

I shiver, wanting to glance at Bass, (as much as I hate to admit it, he often knows Miles better than I could ever hope to), but unable to tear myself away from those dark eyes. “Yeah,” I manage, not quite sure what that is written into the lines on his face. I bring a hand up to trace them, the fine wrinkles carved into him by the last eight years. “Yes. I do.”

His tongue darts out over his lips and he leans in, kissing my palm before nodding decisively as if having made up his mind about something. “Okay.”

Bass squeezes his arm and I see him looking pensive and unsure out of the corner of my eye. “I mean,” I shoot a look between them, suddenly insecure about my request. The reaction doesn’t seem to fit the situation unless I’m drastically missing a variable. “You don’t have to, Miles.”

“I said okay,” he grumbles into my hand, turning his attention to the delicate buttons on my top. His fingers slip beneath the satin, just brushing the curve of my breast. I lean back on my hands, watching Bass warily undress, his good mood apparently tested. Reaching into the nightstand drawer, he retrieves a condom and that precious little plastic bottle, torn pink and blue label garish in the firelit room.

He tosses them on the bed and moves in behind Miles, always unashamed to be the first one naked, though he seems entirely fixated on the man between us tonight. Bass naturally preens for both of us but right now it feels like he’s barely willing to acknowledge me, all his focus needed to take care of Miles. His hands curl in Miles’ shirt, pushing it up his back as Miles peels my top off. He pulls back long enough to help Bass lift his shirt off over his head and I draw my lip in between my teeth, watching them lean into each other. They don’t understand how their familiarity affects me. Hell, I don’t understand how it affects me: am I jealous? Jealous of who, exactly?

Bass runs his fingers through dark hair, lips brushing Miles’ cheek before he reaches down to unbuckle his belt. I shed my satin pants and panties, skimming my fingers through the dark hair on his chest. Wool pants and cotton boxers crumple on the floor and Miles steps out of them, sliding his hands up my bare thighs. I forget for a moment that we’re apparently indulging in something out of his comfort zone, wrapping my legs around his waist and tugging him to me, like I normally would.

Holding my jaw gently in both hands, he drags his tongue against mine and I sigh into him. Bass wraps a hand around my ankle for balance, stepping in closer to us, and dropping a kiss to Miles’ shoulder blade. We’re both consumed by Miles, his cock lying hard and impatient against my thigh. Whatever it is I’m missing here, it doesn’t seem to be affecting his desire. In all my doubts, I’ve never had to wonder if Miles wants me. He drops a hand to the bed, fumbling behind us for the condom and dragging the abandoned book closer.

I chuckle quietly, my forehead resting against his.

“What? We gotta get it right,” Miles insists, pressing the foil wrapper into my hand, and even Bass muffles a laugh in his shoulder,grabbing the little bottle of lube off the bed. He generously coats his fingers before slicking them between Miles’ cheeks, bicep flexing as he presumably works Miles open from behind.  

“Such a slave driver.” But I let him shuffle me to the end of the bed, one of the posts braced at his hip, and he lays me flat. My arm dangles off the edge and I feel a little silly but they both murmur their approval and it’s not hard to see why: the angle pushes my breasts up, nipples puckered and shoulders squared.

Behind him, Bass reaches for more lube and dips back into Miles, who lets a shaky breath escape thin, pink lips, slightly chapped from the winter cold. I tear the wrapper open with my teeth and reach between us to roll the condom on him impatiently. Bass is rubbing soft circles over Miles’ back with his free hand and I’ve never seen him quite so tender. It’s distracting. “Want you,” I whisper, not having to try for the hoarse tone in my voice, “Please, Miles.”

He shudders above me and guides his hands under my hips, drawing me to the very edge of the bed. I brace my hand on his shoulder, eyes slamming shut as he pushes slowly inside me with no preamble. Then again, I really don’t need it. I’ve been looking at that book all afternoon; I was ready when they came in. Miles sinks into me, his narrow hips spreading my thighs open as he stretches me in exactly the way I’ve needed all day. So often lately I’ve watched Miles enter Bass but not had the chance to feel him in me, when it’s my favorite feeling in the world.

I don’t bother to stifle my moans, knowing he likes to hear how he makes me feel, likes to be reassured that it’s good. When he’s as deep in me as he can reach, Miles stills, letting me catch my breath. I tip my head back to see the illustration and, wincing at the way she’s contorted, wonder if I can even do that. There’s only one way to find out so I start to lift my knee but Miles clamps a hand on my calf.

“Wait. Uh, give us- give us a minute,” he stammers without looking me in the eye. Dropping his head to my breast, Miles tucks his arms along my sides, the dark fur on his chest and arms soft against my skin, as if he’s bracing himself on me.

Tangling my fingers in his hair, I meet Bass’ eyes in question but he just shakes his head minutely, as if Miles can see our silent conversation even though he has his nose pressed to my sternum. He braces both hands at Miles’ waist, drawing a deep, steady breath. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Do it, Bass,” he mumbles and now I’m more curious than ever. _Have they never done this before?_

I relax back against the bed, kneading my fingers at the base of his skull and letting my eyes close. I guess it was only last week that he fucked me but they’ve made me crave them; I can’t deny that, even if it isn’t a flattering reflection of my character. Honestly, what does it matter now anyway? I’m the one who has to look at myself in the mirror every morning and spreading my legs for two war criminals is the least of my offenses.

He grunts against me all of a sudden and I picture Bass edging inside him. God, that’s something I want to see. But I stay still, waiting patiently, even as tears begin to sting beneath my eyelids from the building pressure. Miles’ hands tremble as he slowly, finally, lifts his weight off me and my eyes flutter open.

“You all right?” I ask, sounding breathier than I’d like.

Miles grits his teeth, nodding once, short, as he starts to lift my calf.

“I don’t know if I can-”

He ignores my protest and lifts my foot slowly up over his shoulder, canting my hips so he hits inside me at just the right angle. My mouth falls open and I groan, seizing on his cock, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Good?” Bass grunts and I’m not sure which of us he’s talking to but, yes, it’s good. I tighten my thighs around Miles’ hips and he thrusts without warning, slipping easily in and out, and christ, does that feel perfect. I scrabble for purchase in the blankets, my other hand clenching into a fist.

Miles’ face still looks a little strained, but even the lines between his eyes start to fade as he thrusts in me and Bass thrusts in him. The three of us are on completely different rhythms, I think, but with every jerk, it feels like Bass shoves him a little deeper inside me. I can’t begin to put into words what that feels like.

He slides the hand that isn’t balancing my ankle on his shoulder up my stomach, more steadying himself than playing with me. I lift my hand to roll a nipple between two fingers; Miles dips into my belly button and then between my legs, his hand large and rough on my skin. He flicks at my clit and my hips jerk, wetness seeping out around him and dripping onto the bed.

Rubbing circles over my clit with his thumb, Miles nuzzles at the soft, tender arch of my foot before hitching it down to rest my heel on his chest. His lips tease the ball of my foot before he’s sucking a toe into his mouth. Only with Miles does that work for me but with him moaning around my big toe and thrusting inside me and rubbing my clit, I’m quickly reduced to thrashing on the bed, Bass’ hand anchoring my ankle at his hip.

His free arm is wrapped tight around Miles and I reach up, squeezing his fingers probably too tight as I come hard, back arching off the bed. Something garbled trips off my tongue, my eyes slammed shut, and Miles pops my toe out of his mouth in time to bend my knees up on either side of him and work me through it. He’s moaning louder than usual, thanks to Bass’ deep, jerking thrusts inside him, I suppose. I’m so spent, my eyes close involuntarily, but I can hear them both panting above me. Miles has given up thrusting, just letting Bass slam him into me.

"Fuck, Miles, _fuck_. God, so tight, so-" Bass buries a moan in Miles' neck and I peek an eye open to find lids slammed shut over dark eyes, his knuckles white on the bedpost.

I reach up to scrape my nails through Miles' damp chest hair and he shudders, squeezing my hip so tight I wince. The gasp that escapes him is something so much more raw than what he's ever made when it’s only the two of us; I feel a pinch of the jealousy that exists just under my skin at all times since this thing with the three of us began. I clench on his cock, even as exhaustedas I am, and he clings to my thigh, shattering in me.

Bass barely holds him back from collapsing on me even as he's coming himself. I’m so swollen I barely notice when Miles draws out of me, but I curl my legs under instinctually against the suddenly chilled air, balling up on the edge of the bed. Through half-closed eyes, I watch Bass guide Miles’ lips against his from behind, the elegant muscles of Miles’ neck straining to reach. Bass must be withdrawing then, because Miles’ knees buckle just enough that Bass tightens his grip across Miles’ chest. Bass mouths something at Miles, and in response, Miles presses his forehead into Bass’. I close my eyes, trying not to see their private moment. There's a beat of quiet shuffling before the bed sinks under their combined weight beside me. I moan my complaint at being moved as they tug me back up with them but give a contented sigh as we settle under the covers, Bass in the middle. Miles nuzzles into Bass’ back, his arm threaded lazily across Bass’ stomach, thick fingers brushing my waist.

I catch myself yawning as I rest my head on Bass’ chest. “The French really know what they’re talking about.”

Miles lifts a limp hand under Bass’ armpit in agreement. “Seconded,” he mumbles, already half asleep.

Leaning over me and leaving Miles to land on his back with a soft groan, Bass turns down the hurricane lamp on the nightstand so the bedroom grows dark, lit only by hot embers in the fireplace.

We lay there in the dark, quiet room for a few minutes and I’m wrung out, but my curiosity can only take so much. “What was that all about?” I whisper finally, curling up in Bass’ arms.

“What was what all about?” I tip my head back and pin with him a look. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s complicated.”

“Had you never… done that before?”

“No, of course we had.” Bass frowns, looking offended. “We just don’t do it very often.”

I pause, chewing on my lip before pressing him for more. “Why not?”

“Because-” He glances over his shoulder to be sure Miles is really asleep. “He’s sensitive about it.” I must look as confused as I feel because he tosses back the covers with a sigh. I shiver, gooseflesh rising instantly on my naked body, but he wraps me in a blanket and ushers me out of bed. Dragging a few blankets with us, we tiptoe across the room and he lays down a folded blanket on the floor.

I suppress a smile as he tugs me down beside him, his arms winding tight around my waist. Bass clings in bed and although it took some getting used to, I find I like it. Mathesons aren’t physically needy but he is; he likes to touch and stroke and hold me and whisper into the middle of the night. We lay there a few minutes, the fire low and warm on my cheeks, before he mutters in a hushed voice, “Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Well, you saw him when he got home.”

Pressing my lips together, I force myself to speak. “Yeah. Whenever I’d get anywhere near him, he’d get jumpy, like he thought I was going to- I don’t know. It was horrible.”

Bass agitates his curls with a shaky hand. “Well when our unit found him he looked like shit scraped off the floor. And when he was lying on his stomach in the hospital recovering before they shipped him home to you and Ben - it was like Miles wasn’t in there anymore. It scared the hell out of me. Nothing worse than looking in someone’s eyes and seeing nothing there.”

I turn in his grip, rolling over to face him, though the room is so dark I can still barely see him. I’m reluctant to ask but whatever happened, it clearly still haunts Miles. Some small, twisted part of me just wants to know him. “He must have told you what happened.”

Bass shakes his head and my eyebrows shoot up. “But, you’re Matheson and Monroe. You know everything about each other.”

He swallows hard and his eyes are so sad that he’s almost sympathetic. “Not everything.” The moment the words have left his mouth, he drops his hand from my shoulder and looks down: regret. It’s always a dance with Bass, what he and I are willing to divulge.

“I wonder what else he doesn’t tell you,” I say aloud. My mind flashes unbidden to Miles’ tent in Ohio, the way the flap smacked shut behind him and gray sunlight filtered over the veins in his hands, uninvited on my thighs. I force it away. _That village_. He burned all those people’s homes to the ground and turned them out on the streets to die.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Bass demands. It’s only the suddenly pinched look on his face that makes me realize how my question must have sounded.

I hesitate, because do I really _want_ Miles telling Bass everything that’s passed between us? “Did he tell you about Ohio? How the commanding general of your precious militia conducts ‘civilized warfare’? He’s not the honor-obsessed Marine he was back then. He makes his own rules now.” It comes out with a bit of a sneer and I know I’ll probably get an earful for it but what Miles did that week was unforgivable.

“ _Civilized warfare?_ You don’t know a damn thing about war, civilized or not.” He hesitates though, narrowing those bright blue eyes at me. “Why? What did he do to you?”

“He razed an entire village to try to draw out my family, Bass. He wouldn’t listen to reason. And he… put his hands on me,” Bass lurches, in surprise or disgust I’m not sure, and I raise a hand to still him, “He didn’t hurt me. But I hadn’t seen him that _twisted_ before.”

Bass squeezes together his dark blond eyelashes for a moment and pulls me tighter against him, rubbing his thumb in small circles over my shoulder blade though I gather that it’s more for his comfort than mine. I probably shouldn’t admit this but I like his arms around me, his hands in my hair. He’s warm and reassuring, even when I don’t think he means to be. Even though I know firsthand how cruel he can be. He appears lost in thought for a long while, and I study his face, always so fraught with emotions, trying to read him. Is he upset at Miles? Protective of me?

“Miles is fucked up and he doesn’t even pretend like he _wants_ to fix it,” Bass mumbles finally as if he doesn’t expect me to hear or respond. Miles gets ripped apart in Afghanistan, then takes it out on a bunch of innocents and on _me_ , and Bass can still manage to make it about him. Abruptly, I’m angry - on the offensive. And the insane thing is we’re still holding each other beneath the blankets, his arm under me and my palm curled a little above his appendectomy scar.

“But neither do you, Bass. You’re no different from him.” I’ve always believed this. They’re two halves and all that Plato bullshit. He shifts uncomfortably against me though, so maybe it’s not as true as I think? But, then, which is the saner of the two?

Bass’ shadowy face gazes down at me for an inordinately long time before puffing out an unconvincing laugh. “And Miles says _I_ know how to ruin a good lay by talking.” I can’t tell if his smile is genuine, but he lies all the way back and pulls me against his chest, his heart thudding and his muscles tense under my hands. “Go to sleep, Rachel.”

It’s his defensive play, but I’ll yield because my eyelashes feel damp and fatigue is settling into my joints from the earlier contortions.

When I wake up, Miles is squatting next to us, an almost-smile on his face and his fingers brushing my cheek. I blink in the bright, morning sunshine bouncing off (obnoxious) yellow walls, stretching slightly in Bass’ arms. He’s still asleep, I can tell by the way he’s wrapped around me.

“Morning,” I mumble, not about to apologize for abandoning him in the bed. Most nights it’s him that ends up sleeping on the floor. Three in a bed and Miles with his pointy limbs, is rarely a good combination. Slowly my conversation with Bass creeps back into my consciousness, and I shiver, because here is Miles being tender as ever. It’s impossible to square with the man we were discussing last night.

“Morning,” he whispers back and I vaguely register his uniform clinging to him. He must have been up for a while; early training perhaps? Dropping a kiss to my cheek, he ruffles Bass’ hair over my shoulder. “I got to get out there. Sorry I woke you; you just looked so…” Miles looks pensive and I wonder how that sentence might have ended if his vocabulary extended to emotions. “Go back to sleep,” he mutters instead, squeezing my arm and straightening.

They’ve been doing a lot of telling me to go back to sleep, as if that would make my brain stop racing after their secrets. As if they can fuck me and put me away when they’re done. I came here to undermine them but was caught off guard by the brokenness I saw reflected back at me. The boys were both always damaged, as long as I’ve known them, but there’s a difference in knowing the brutality of war and seeing average people reduced to mongrels for food and shelter. I did this to them, I broke them with my little machines (the machines I’m breathing in with Bass’ lemon-leather scent and Miles is crushing underfoot on the hardwood) but I’m not finished with them. There _has_ to be something in all three of us that can be salvaged.


	3. Dr. Ashu Arora’s Medical Journal, Summer 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This has to go down in history as one of the coolest things to have ever happened to AO3 authors. Our esteemed reader, Maywitch, upon reading this chapter became so inspired she made Doc's journal into a graphic! All credit for the below image belongs to her. Thank you again, love!

 

   
 **Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: July 8, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:

  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Dr. Ashu Arora’s Medical Journal, Summer 2019  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Leatherbound journal, 5x7 inches, Lined paper  
Location: 3A [(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: scratches on the leather, several pages torn, burn marks on edges

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
 _July 10, 2019_  
Day 31 of Influenza outbreak in Philadelphia.  
Stage 1 symptoms: extreme fatigue, fever, and headache.  
Stage 2: bluish skin color and difficulty breathing; violent coughing occasionally accompanied by abdominal tearing; vomiting, diarrhea, incontinence.  
If progress to Stage 3: pulmonary edema; bleeding from nose, mouth, or ears; possible death.  
Like Spanish Flu 1918-19, death more likely in ages 20-40. Mortality 5-10%.

_July 18, 2019_  
General Miles Matheson exhibiting symptoms of Stage two.

_July 20, 2019_  
President Sebastian Monroe exhibiting symptoms of Stage one.

[page torn]

  
**Summer 2019: Bass**

It was only a matter of time before this happened. It’s the most quotidian things that take the people I love: like getting in a car to go to a movie, giving birth, or just catching the flu. Yes, Miles is dying of the flu. And the cherry on that shit sundae is that he and I are on uncertain terms at the moment, so I can’t even say my goddamn Romeo-and-Juliet-goodbye with grace. Now it’ll just be pathetic and awkward to admit to him that where he goes, I go, and that includes his last shuffle. I told him before at Trenton, and I’m on my way to remind him in case he thinks he’s sneaking out on me. I’m coming with you, Miles.

As I mount the stairs in Independence Hall, the only things convincing me I’m still real are my feet dragging on every step and my fingers trailing up the pale blue banisters. I try to pinpoint when things got rocky for us so that I can fix it, and we can die happy. The Republic was supposed to bring us closer together, our shared masterpiece. But it seems like these days I can’t do anything right; Miles has been constantly exasperated with me.

Like on our western expedition, how he shot all those POWs from that rival militia? He didn’t even bother to question them first, just said decisively, like he always does: _These men are terrorists._ Okay Miles, I get it. But on our way back to Philly, when I shot a couple of townspeople rioting in the streets with fucking guns trained on us in blatant defiance of our disarmament rule and at mortal peril to ourselves, he bit my head off about it like I’d done the worst thing in the world. But Christ, those people were terrorists too - more dangerous than the enemy soldiers he’d unceremoniously executed. Miles is a genuinely baffling person to lead an army with.

What’s more, he’s confusing as hell to love. He never tells you what he’s thinking until he’s livid with you; then he slams you up against a wall to fight or fuck you, depending on how horny he is. If I could figure it out, I’d stop pissing him off all the time. I just want us to be together, and we haven’t been in nearly a year. I can barely remember the silky feel of his cock on my thighs or the slick of his tongue in my mouth.

At the top of the first landing, I waver and balance. I could just let go and fall into space, but with my luck, I’d break my tailbone and live another 50 years as a quadriplegic. So I continue to put one foot in front of the other.

We stopped sleeping together a few months before Miles went to pick up Ben. Our enemies had been breathing down our necks from all sides, and we didn’t have enough men to meet simultaneous threats. We were arguing over everything, and the one thing we finally agreed on was needing Ben. Ben clearly knew about the Blackout in advance; he must know something about getting the Power back on. When Miles first left to retrieve him, we actually caught a break. Our western guard had a few significant wins against the Plains tribes and the Georgians succumbed to a massive yellow fever epidemic. For a moment, I actually thought our borders were secure _and_ Miles would come home with Ben. We’d finally be in a position of strength.

But instead, when Miles tracked down his family in Ohio, he started acting all secretive and weird. And then… _Rachel_. I knew as soon as she turned herself in instead of Ben that we were in trouble. I’ve always believed that Miles’ obsession with that woman would be the end of us, and in a way, that’s exactly what’s happened.

He wasn’t making any progress interrogating Rachel in Ohio, so I begged him to just bring her home, but he wouldn’t and he wouldn’t… until: he did. And then, he tossed her in a cage beneath the Hall and practically disappeared. He wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t see her.

I finally decided on my own that she had to be moved upstairs for the good of all of us. For one thing, Miles was tormenting himself over the cruelty of imprisoning her like that - I could tell. For another, Rachel and I were driving ourselves crazy trying to match wits below ground. So I took a new approach: I put her in the room adjacent to my office to convince her that she’s more valued guest than prisoner.

During all of that, Miles had barely been home to sleep in his own bed, and when he did finally come home, he was sick as a dog. Flu was raging all over our city - its general idiotically mucking about in it just to avoid facing his prisoner. His decline was swift as a rug pulled out from under me. Doc’s been trying to quarantine him, but I don’t care - not when things have gotten this grim.

And what’s more, if this really is the end, Rachel should say goodbye to him, too. It’s what Miles would want. I don’t know what went on between her and Miles in Ohio, but I can tell when Miles thinks he has fucked up royally. He sinks into himself and disappears. And I don’t want him to have to die like that. He needs his opportunity to make it right and yes, to say goodbye to the woman who’s been my archrival for his affections our entire adult lives. See how magnanimous I get at the end? A regular fucking priest to my best friend.

“Sir!” Jeremy’s voice rings behind me, because he’s looking for me, of course. I called him. He’s one of precious few who knows who the prisoner is who lives in our midst, so he is often tasked with escorting her. “Have you seen Miles yet?” Jeremy continues, his crow’s feet edged deep with sorrow.

Jeremy, Miles, and I have a special history together with Miles at our center. The bottom of my stomach feels watery as I wonder if Jeremy and I are even friends without Miles.

“Sir, are you okay?” Jeremy starts to touch my shoulder, and I abruptly draw back. He’s here to receive orders, not play therapist.

“I’m going in to see him now. I’d like you to bring the prisoner-”

“You mean Miles’ sister-in-law?” Jeremy drawls, too casual with our secrets.

“Yes.” I narrow my eyes. “Bring her to Miles’ room in an hour sharp.”

“Okay, Bass.”

I frown at him, because Jeremy mixes formalities and friendship like caviar and coleslaw. I know it’s hard for him considering he was there with us from the beginning. And it does remind me – we _are_ friends. But that hardly matters now.

“And sir, I’d like to say goodbye to him then too, if I might.”

My stomach dips a little further. “Of course.” I nod that Jeremy’s dismissed.

So I have an hour alone with Miles. Maybe our last together. Everyone wants to die with dignity, so I’ve got to hold it together, even though I feel like blubbering. In the Marines, the corpsmen were always trained to say something like, “Hey buddy you’re looking real good,” when someone’s face was blown off or they’d completely lost it, so yeah: _Bass, you’re looking real good. Hang in there, buddy._ I realize I’m a deranged motherfucker giving myself a pep talk just to _look_ at my dying friend.

I sigh and turn the handles on Miles’ sick chamber.

Doc’s doleful brown eyes are on me, as he gathers his instruments off the table and into his black bag. In his gentle, Afghan lift he scolds, “President Monroe, you really shouldn’t be in here.”

“You said I might need to say goodbye.” I swallow the knot in my throat.

Doc sympathetically lays a hand across Miles’ sweat-beaded forehead and sighs. “He could still recover. He’s exceptionally stubborn, as we learned the last time we went down this road at Trenton. Still, with this particular influenza the end has been very swift. It’s caught families off guard. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

I ball my hands at my sides, trying not to look as tense and irrationally angry as I feel, though it takes everything I have just to unclench my jaw.

“I’ve done all I can to make him comfortable. You just keep your distance, Mr. President. The Republic can’t lose you both.”

Doc Arora really is an exceptional doctor, and he’s genuinely devoted to Miles. See, Doc’s an Afghan Hindu and when the Taliban waltzed into town in the late 90s and fucked up his country, forcing the “idolatrous” to wear yellow badges and their women to hide behind burqas, he and his wife fled to America. He became an army doctor and served in our Middle Eastern wars, so he’s genuinely grateful for Miles’ and my service in the Marines.  

“I’ll call you in a couple of hours,” I say more curtly than I intend. It’s just that I feel pressure building behind my eyes again. Guess my pep talk to myself didn’t work so well after all.

I barely notice Doc leaving, because he’s socially graceful like that, and then I force myself to look at the bed where Miles and I have made love a hundred times - too small for either of us. Even now his legs are awkwardly bunched up at the bottom. My eyes travel up from his feet to his torso, the blanket pulled down to expose the contrast of dark hair against almost bluish skin. I inhale everything about his sickness at once: sharp ammonia from his chamber pot, stale sweat, rancid breath. Fuck, Miles. Don’t go. _Please_ don’t go.

I perch on the edge of his bed, yanking off one boot and then the the other, before crawling across the green-striped comforter to wrap him in my arms. Conforming my body to the sharp angles of his side, I press my lips to his damp temple.

He coughs brutally and flecks of saliva dot his dark beard. Lolling his head toward me on the pillow, he opens a bloodshot eye. It’s a testament to how strong he is that he can manage some lucidity in the midst of what is clearly a raging fever. So he’s fighting. Miles is fighting for me.

“Bass...hell you doing?” he mumbles, almost mustering irritability despite his weakness. “You’ll get sick.”

“Good.” God, I sound petulant. This is not how I envisioned our last conversation going.

“Don’t say that.” He squeezes together his eyelids, lush eyelashes dusted with yellow sleepers. Even when he’s disgusting, he’s beautiful.

“Miles, don’t go.”

“Trying.”

“Try harder, goddammit,” and then I whisper, “or you’ll have to take me with you,” but I can tell he’s already drifted off again.

I kiss him on the lips this time, and he hacks violently into my mouth. I wipe my scratchy sleeve across my cheeks, feeling satisfied. Surely, the damage is done. Then I nuzzle my face against his scorching neck and whisper to his skin how much I love him. Together we burn a million degrees.

It seems like mere minutes later that Jeremy raps at Miles’ door, breaking our spell. I should jolt away in humiliation at having draped myself all over the man with whom my relationship is supposed to be secret. But...Jeremy knows. I mean, hell, he’s probably even seen us fucking since he camped with us for so long. And Rachel? Well, I hate to say it, but she’s the smartest person in any room. She’s certainly figured us out. Probably even knew back then.

So I grunt something that could be construed as “Enter!” and fail to budge. I don’t even bother looking at them. I can only hide my tears by burrowing further into Miles’ neck.

To their credit, neither warns me that Miles is contagious - that I’ll catch my death. Maybe they’re just afraid of how desperate I look. Jeremy steps around first, and through a slitted eye I see him lay a hand on Miles’ bare shoulder and squeeze.

“Hey, man. Thanks for saving me and giving me something to believe in again. You won’t be forgotten.”

Oh fuck. I can’t do this, can’t listen to other peoples’ goodbyes. I’ll completely shatter. But then Jeremy’s gone - I can tell by the way the air sweeps out the door. I hear the scraping of wooden chair legs on the floor, and I open my eyes to see Rachel’s blues widened near to circles, probably determined not to cry in front of me, her golden hair swept back into a ponytail.

She runs her fingers through Miles’ matted hair. Her bottom lip quivers, but she stills it to say, “So there’s no hope?”

My throat is so thick with mucous, all I can do is shrug. A thought crowds my brain, and before I can quash it, it’s occupied the space between us:

“Maybe if _you_ ask him to stay, he will.”

Her eyebrows arch up, her forehead twisted in agony and uncertainty. “What?” she whispers.

It sounds bitter tripping off my lips, but you know, maybe I am actually hoping it’ll work. “You know how he feels about you.”

Her pink lips pinch together in a line, and she shakes her head. “Not anymore. He told me.”

I almost manage a scoff. “He lied. He’s exactly as in love with you as the day he cut you loose.” Fuck my runaway mouth. It only hurts _me_ to admit it.

“No, Bass. Miles has changed. He’s cruel, only cares about himself. He’ll do anything to have his way.”

I lift my eyebrows wearily. So she thinks he’s morphed into some unrecognizable monster, does she? I know my Miles has always had a cruel streak. And Miles knows it too. It’s why he tries to protect people from himself - people like _her_. And then she had to go and fucking turn herself in when he was at his most vulnerable, begging his big brother for help - the big brother he’s convinced never loved him. I shouldn’t throw her this bone, but I can tell she’s suffering, and it’s eerie and nostalgic to be sitting here with someone from my past.

“Miles doesn’t want to have his way, Rachel. If he did, he would have swept you away from Ben all those years ago, married you, fathered a gaggle of your children.” At least the jealousy bubbling up in my stomach has temporarily choked off the tears. “But he is the master of self-denial - fucking Siddhartha in his ascetic phase.”

She narrows her eyes at that, and I snort lightly, because he probably doesn’t even know who the Buddha is. She presses her fingertips to her forehead. “If he’s so altruistic, then why does he want Power? So your little army can march across the Northern continent, spreading the joys of dysfunctional military dictatorship?”

So now we’ve transplanted our cheerful dungeon discussions upstairs to Miles’ deathbed. Wonderful. But this is for Miles - to clear his name with the woman he loves.

“A lot of shit hit the fan in the Republic at once, Rachel, and we needed Ben’s help. You know how many people we administer? Millions. If we fall to our enemies, millions of people could die. So you see, Miles cares about me, he loves you, but he’ll _still_ put the Republic first.”

“This corrupt Rome you two built? Why is it so important to him?”

I cock my head at her. I guess I thought she knew him better. But the thing is, the Blackout exaggerated everyone’s most inherent nature. And she wasn’t there for those early years.

I sniff and answer, “The Enlightenment never made it to Miles Matheson. To him, people are essentially rotten. How does he know? Because he himself is rotten. After the Blackout, Miles could have gone around shooting every asshole we came across, ending finally with himself. Instead…” I gesture out the window and then let my hand fall on his feverish arm. Listening to his chest rattle disturbs the rhythm of my own breathing, until I nearly hyperventilate.

I eye her again. “Why did you come to say goodbye, if you hate him so much?” It can’t possibly be because I asked her to.

“I could never hate him. I came because...he’s dying because of _me_.”

“What?”

“This influenza outbreak? It’s the Spanish flu all over again, ravaging the young and strong. If it weren’t for my Blackout-”

“ _Your_ Blackout-”

“I- Nevermind.”

Jesus. She chooses right now to start fessing up? Well none of it fucking matters anymore anyway unless he lives. Miles coughs brutally, and I clamp my hand over his lips to protect her from it. I don’t want Rachel to get sick too. Shit, he sounds like he’s choking on his own lungs. Miles, goddammit. I need you to live.

Rachel’s withdrawn her hands into her lap, and I reach across his clammy body to take her hand and place it on his chest. It’s my last ditch hope that at the end, Miles will finally give himself what he wants and choose to live for it. For _her_.

“Tell him.”

Her hand trembles as she threads her fingers into the dark fur and then presses her lips to his forehead, much like I did.

“Miles, it’s Rachel. Please don’t go. Bass and I...we need you here.” Her voice splinters and she squeezes her eyes shut, head bowing almost as if she’s saying a prayer. It seems a little out of character for the woman who recently told me God was in the dark too, since the Blackout. “Please. You have to give me a chance to forgive you, Miles.” A tear escapes her tightly shut eyes, rolling down her cheek. “I need more time.”

It’s done then. Maybe he heard it. Maybe he’ll obey her, if not me.

Despite the ludicrous and inappropriately timed conversation we’ve had - typical for us, as I’ve learned these past few months - I’m starved for comfort. Miles’ skin feels so suddenly cold and dead already, that I lay my hand on top of hers upon his chest and close my eyes. After a pause, she reaches up with her little finger to thread it next to mine. Death makes for strange bedfellows. It makes philosophers of us all.

* * *

Miles is dead and I’m lying with him in his coffin. It’s really fucked up that while he seems utterly insentient, I can still feel everything - the drowning pressure of my water-logged lungs (did Miles and I drown in a battleship accident?), the searing of my heartbreak over losing him - only I can’t move my arms and legs.

I cough an explosion of mucous. Oh fuck. I’m alive. I’m burning up everywhere but my feet, which are blocks of ice. I’m certain I have frostbite on my toes, and I want to rub them on something, but I can do nothing but writhe in pain.

“Shhhh. I’m here, babe. I’m here.”

I must be fever-hallucinating, because that sounds like _his_ voice: Miles. He’s the only person who’s ever called me that, and then, only in bed. Christ, I’m going mad at the end. It comes back to me, how I let him cough in my mouth. How I wanted to die. The irony hits me like a mack truck. Now _he’s_ alive and I’m dying.

I force myself to open my eyes. The light singes my corneas, and I slam them shut again.

“That’s it, Bass.” Miles holds my hand - I can tell it’s his, because it’s huge and rough from swordfighting, callouses in all the same places as mine.

“F-f-feet-tt,” is what creaks out between my chattering teeth.

I hear his chair scoot away, as he pulls back the covers on my frozen feet and starts rubbing them. God, it’s torture, like hot pokers. But slowly the blood starts to return.

“I’m going to order you another hot water bottle, Bass. It’s pretty ugly down here.”

Suddenly, there’s a shuffle at the door, and he drops my right foot and tucks them both back in the blankets. My eyes are shut, and I don’t care if it’s St. Peter himself come to see me. I ain’t looking.

“Rachel, what the hell!?” roars Miles. “Jeremy, who gave you orders to bring her here?” When Miles is upset, he defaults to anger. It stings my sensitive ears.

“Sorry, sir. She asked, and well...it didn’t seem right to deny her. Bass is in dire shape.”

“Aw Christ, Jeremy. Go make yourself useful and get him another hot water bottle.” There is a rustling and a click. “Rachel, you’ve got to get out of here. You’ll get sick too!” Even I can tell how panicked Miles sounds.

“I managed to survive sitting at _your_ bedside.”

I try to rub the soles of my feet together, as Miles smolders, “And that was idiotic! It’s a miracle you didn’t get sick. Don’t put yourself in danger again.”

“I have to say goodbye!” Rachel sounds determined, her voice high and strained. I can’t imagine what for. Saying goodbye to Miles was one thing, but to me?

“You...why?” Miles appears equally taken aback.

“I’m not ready to forgive either of you for what you’ve done, but I want the _chance_ , Miles. How long have we known each other? Of course I don’t want you dead.”

“That’s not what you led me to believe in Ohio.”

“No, you’re right and I wouldn’t have regretted your death, if I’d been successful. But I’m glad I wasn’t. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

I can almost read Miles’ flabbergasted expression off the buzz in the room.

“I-” I hear him falter. “You baffle me, Rachel.”

I hack again, and this time my chest seizes up. I sense commotion, hands on me, and then blackness and agony - a dreamless sleep.

I hear myself wheezing and feel so wet everywhere I worry I’ve peed myself, but after awhile I’m convinced it’s just sweat. When I finally crack an eye, I see the light is low and seeping in through the part in the curtains. Miles’ is poised at the window, his big body in shadow, gripping the fabric white knuckled, while Rachel holds him from behind, cheek resting against his back. It’s a little like waking up to a new chapter in a book.

“You don’t have to be strong about this,” her voice trails gently over to me. “You can cry. I know what he means to you.” To my surprise, he turns to her and completely buries his face in her hair, shaking violently, an actual sob shattering the stillness.

It twists me in unfathomable ways, seeing him weep over _me_ but into the comfort of _her_ arms. I realize something then: My fever has broken.

“Hey,” I mumble thickly. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”

Instantly, they break apart, and Miles kneels on the floor beside me, peering into my face, Rachel tall and graceful looming behind him. Miles slides a hand over my forehead and into my sweaty curls. Christ, he _is_ crying. He hasn’t even been able to stop himself. A garish tear drips off his nose and splashes onto my cheek. Rachel seizes my hand and squeezes, and I find I’m not entirely surprised to see tears brimming in her eyes as well.

“Hey, man. You feeling better?” Miles’ voice stutters wetly. He still looks haggard from his own illness - dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks hollowed.

I nod.

“Fuck, you scared me.” The chestnut crown plops forward, and then his tears are on my neck and shoulder. I reach a hand up to cradle the back of his head. I inhale warmth, fire, whiskey and almost smile at her, gazing down at us. She weakly smiles back at me, looking genuinely relieved.

“Not that I don’t like being cried over, but if you want to get the doc, I could use some water and maybe a bedpan.”

Miles leaps up a little too quickly, and I grunt at the pressure of his hand on my chest. “On it!” He lopes off, suddenly energized.

Rachel moves to the edge of my bed and drapes her cool, long fingers across my forehead. It feels heavenly.

“So glad you’re back.”

“Really? I don’t see why. I thought I was...what did you call me when you were downstairs: barbaric and deranged?”

She grimaces, stroking her thumb over the lines in my forehead. “You are. But you and Miles are all I have left.”

In my daze, it’s difficult for me to process her full meaning. Still, it makes me very sad. I reach up to take her hand from my face and hold it tight.

Miles clatters back into the room holding a glass of water, Doc close on his heels, and Rachel lifts herself off the bed. I’m instantly hovered over, the cool disc of Doc’s stethoscope pressed to my chest, as she fades into the periphery, sinking down on the window seat.

“Lungs are clear. Nice work, Mr. President.”

Even though I did nothing but lie here sweating and moaning for untold hours, Doc has a way of making you feel like a champ.

Unduly antsy to Doc’s right, Miles asks, “He’s going to be okay?”

Doc’s eyes crinkle encouragingly, “It’s a very good sign.”

It looks like Miles has to restrain himself from flinging his arms around Doc in celebration. I reach up for Miles’ free hand and squeeze, lips brushing the back of his hand as Doc prods gently at my throat and chest.

Rachel tucks her knees up to her chest, watching us from the window. She looks all soft and tender in the sunlight, and Miles is about to burst. They haven’t seemed so full of promise since- well, since before the Blackout. Since before Miles broke her heart. But this time, they aren’t wrapped up in each other: they’re focused on me.


	4. Hershey Bar Wrapper

  
**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**   


Date: May 17, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Hershey bar wrapper  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Largely intact brown plastic wrapper with silver lettering, found inside of metal trinket box (4.5x7x5)  
Location: 2E[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Torn open at top and along back seam. Expiration date January 2014.

**Transcript of Written Document**  
N/A

 

**Summer 2020: Miles**

Paused outside her double doors in Bass’ office, I shake the rain from my hair, and _shit_ , I’ve tracked in a load of sludge. Even to me it feels a bit irreverent to stain the historic rugs. (Also Bass is going to have my nuts for it, because it’s probably more horseshit than mud, and he’s the one who’ll be living with the stench.) It sort of amuses me when people like Kelly Foster think me a thug, but at this moment, despite the task at hand (extracting intelligence from my sister-in-law/prisoner/lover), I’m suddenly sensitive to not wanting to appear a complete ogre. Who knew I’d gone so soft? So I take off my boots and line them up neatly (with a mild look of regret at the hairy toe protruding through a hole in my sock) before knocking.

“Come in,” rings her musical voice.

My chest buzzes; I’m stupidly in love. I can’t let on to either of them quite how bad this has gotten. I mean, Bass knows how hopeless I was the last time Rachel and I had a thing. I’m not sure _she’s_ figured out I’m the world’s biggest sap – that these days, I’d rather be down on my knees for her than out with my troops.

As soon as I crack the door wide enough to glimpse her, I realize that on my knees is exactly where I’m going to be in less than a minute. She’s stretched like a goddamn cat on her window seat, her cheeks flushed with, _Christ_ , I don’t know, boredom? Arousal? She’s tossed aside her book like it was on fire, so maybe it _was_ something racy. She’s in a sheer blue blouse that hints at black, lacy bra beneath, her jeans are tight enough that my eyes lock straight onto the V of her thighs, and her feet are bare… Damn, now I’m drifting, imagining sucking on those dainty toes, especially the little one at the end. What am I here for again?

Oh right, a citizen reported hearing music – _recorded_ music – just for a moment outside of Indianapolis. Hell, it was probably just some crackpot. How on earth could the power flicker back on in such a limited spot for just a moment? Fuck that. Chances are one in a million that Rachel can explain something that bizarre even if it were the truth.

Her eyebrow’s raised at me like, _What the hell are you doing, Matheson?_ Because I’m frozen across the room in my uniform and socks with who knows what expression on my face. (I try to wrangle it into something neutral, but it probably ends up grotesque.) She might even be able to make out my rising boner from all the way over there. I can’t really tuck it in any place unless I try to distract her with, _Look up in the sky! – it’s a bird, it’s a…well, bird_. No planes anymore. Through the windows beside her, the rain still cascades down in miserable sheets, but, you know, rain’s not so romantic when you’ve been riding in it. (She, however, keeps gazing at it like it’s something comforting or pretty.) Anyway, even a bird would be crazy to be out of tree shelter in that storm. A flash of lightning captivates us both for a split second, her hair silvery in its glow, and fuck me, so enticing I want to touch it. Oops, that was my chance to distract her. Well, the boner stays.

“What is it Miles?” her eyes sparkle with amusement.

I’ve made it over to her and plop down on the cushion, drawing her feet up over my thighs, careful to avoid the crotchal big-top tent. Jesus. I’m such a teenager these days. I slide my fingers over the sole of her foot, my rough skin catching on the cute little wrinkles there. How is it that the Blackout did not mar an inch of her perfection? I swear I’ve aged five years for every one that I’ve been general of the militia. Even Bass doesn’t look nearly so bad as me.

I meet her eyes again almost shyly. I guess I’m just embarrassed that what was meant to be mild interrogation has clearly become booty call.

Rachel certainly thinks it’s the latter, because she slyly rubs her big toe against my fly, and my dick jumps hard in my pants. She has to have felt it – like driving over a dead body in a car without shocks. I chuckle then. What can I do? I’ve been had. Thanks, buddy, for betraying me no matter how old I get.

“You needed something, Miles?” she asks more pointedly. But the way she’s said my name? I’m done – _really_ done. I have no recollection of what I came here for. You could pay me a thousand diamonds, and I’d still be a blank.

I sink my forehead into my hand and admit, “I have no fucking clue what I came to ask. But since I’m here,” I sideways glance at her from between my fingers, “Can I take off your pants?”

I know I’m not a very smooth talker, but she’s normally pretty forgiving, probably because she’s so bored.

Sure enough, she laughs, a gorgeous, rich sound and sort of lifts up her hips in invitation. Yeah. That’s my girl. In a moment, I’m pulling down her pants and these delicate black panties that look like they could disintegrate in my giant fingers. I toss the lot on the floor. This isn’t the easiest angle to go down on her from, but fuck if I care, because in front of me are all those dark blonde curls with a hint of pink…Oh fuck. I’m sprawled – face planted, really – in between her legs in seconds.

Control yourself, Matheson; pussies are more sensitive than dicks. Before Rachel came to town, and we started this – what to even call it: _menage a trois?_ – I’d spent so many years worried only about pleasing Bass that I’m a bit out of practice being delicate.

Propped on my elbows, one of her naked legs draped over my shoulder and the other dangling off the window seat, I start by just inhaling. You know, I couldn’t possibly describe how good she smells to me – I’m no poet. All I know is my nose craves being pressed against her. I kiss down the inside of her thigh, raising goosebumps, until I reach the crease next to her sensitive skin.

When I start to drag my lips up her velvety seam, she snorts (because my flawless specimen of a woman does that): “It tickles!”

I should have shaved – I _am_ prickly. I try my tongue instead, keeping it soft and flat. I’m coasting then, getting lost in her taste. Christ almighty. My elbows are kind of numb, but her panting mingles with the pattering of the rain outside, and it’s a little nutty how far I would go to satisfy this woman.

I tuck my tongue just inside her, and her body catches. I look up to check – a positive or negative development? Her head is resting against the wall, and she’s gripping the dark green curtain with one hand, biting her lip. She cracks open an eye to figure out why I’ve stopped.

“You taste amazing,” I inform her, and she purses her lips. “What you don’t believe me?” I ask incredulously. So I dip into her entrance with a finger, and then withdraw it, holding it up toward her lips. “Taste.”

“What?” she tries to swat me away. “Miles!” she objects.

I must be regarding her with some kind of insane raptness, because she finally lets my finger part her lips. Her mouth is warm and wet, and I sigh a little.

“That’s my favorite taste in the world,” I explain, extracting my finger, and admittedly, I can’t discern her expression. I have some trouble with that, reading people for emotions that aren’t impending violence or potential lies or other survivalist shit. It’s Bass who _gets_ people.

I’m kind of worried I’ve messed up here, so I bury my face in her again, my cheeks burning. She starts to fall open a bit more, and I take that as a sign that she wouldn’t mind if I drew my tongue across her clit now. I nuzzle her with my nose and then lick it lightly. I mean, I can’t really use my hands since I’m leaning on my arms again.

In a moment, she complains, “Miles, harder. You don’t always have to be so gentle with me.”

It hurts my pride a little, but once the initial ego pinch has passed, I grow all the more determined to prove myself. I pull her into a sitting position, so that her legs are dangling over the ledge, while I sink down onto my knees beneath her. I’m sweating a ridiculous amount, so I unbutton my shirt before I spread her legs.

She grabs my chin and tilts it up. “All the way off,” she instructs, as she pulls at my sleeves, exposing the ink on my biceps.

After I obediently discard my shirt, I’m back to business, my tongue working her with as much intensity as I can manage. I think she likes that, because she slides her legs over my shoulders and fists my hair. I plunge a few fingers into her wetness to locate that little bundle of nerves, still relishing her from the outside. I can feel her thigh muscles tense up and imagine her toes curling behind my head. She’s pulling on my hair so hard, my eyes start to water.

She must be getting close. I finger fuck that little rough patch inside her and suck her hard, my sympathetic dick throbbing and dripping into my pants. She’s begging my name now, so even though my tongue is tired and my right arm is cramping, I increase the pressure of everything I’m doing. Then, she’s bucking forward into my mouth, and her entrance clamps down on my fingers, and Christ, I wonder if the hair bunched in her fingers is still attached to my head.

Yeaaah, babe. I’m feeling all kinds of self-congratulatory now, since she’s quivering around me like jelly. I kiss her there a few more times before drawing out my fingers on an avalanche of her wetness. With my left hand, I pry her fingers out of my hair and rub my sore scalp, but she only relocates to pull on my chest hair instead. I don’t really mind. It’s cute that she wants to yank on me so badly.

We both hear the doors open. “Please tell me that’s Bass,” I say to her without turning around to check, and she nods, dragging her shaking legs down from my shoulders and planting her feet on either side of me. I run a finger over a few of her toes.

We’re terribly lucky it’s Bass and not the maid, because I don’t think I could begin to explain to that doe-eyed girl why the general of the Republic has just thoroughly eaten out his prisoner who happens to share his last name. I lazily shift around so that I’m facing Bass, my legs sprawled out before me, my still-damp hair pressed against Rachel’s spent pussy.

“Bass, why are you so goddamn wet?” I hear myself slur, though I’m the one with Rachel’s juices smeared across my lips and soaking into my hair from behind. I know it’s storming out, but Bass looks absurdly wet, like he fell in the deep end of a pool.

“Seriously, Miles?” Even I can tell Bass is masking irritation with a faint smile, because, frankly, any one of us hates finding out that the other two have been fucking without him or her. It’s just the twisted dynamics of threesome.

I feel Rachel tap my head from above. “His turn?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to realize what she wants. She loves to watch me suck off Bass, and well, I don’t exactly mind the audience.

Hell, my jaw’s kind of locked up from pleasuring her, but I beckon him over anyway with what must be a look of supreme smugness, because Bass shoots me daggers like: _You better live up to that face, asshole._

I suppose it’s my day of giving and not receiving, and though my dick complains, it’s sort of dismaying the lengths I’d go to keep these two happy. Oh well. Bass looks immanently fuckable with his bedraggled curls, so I get back on my knees with Rachel craning around my shoulders to unzip him.

I swallow and prepare my fatigued mouth for another round, but once my lips close on that citrus-sweat – a taste as familiar to me as my own sour-whiskey breath – I forget I was ever tired. I hold his gaze, too – intense, watery blue – and realize it’s been a few days since I looked at him from down here. I’ve missed it. As I run my tongue along him, I hope he knows how much I love doing this for him. I really do.

Rachel pumps him for me, and that’s weird but nice, because I can finally unzip my own pants and touch myself too. I throb heavy with blood in my fist, as I lean forward to take in more of Bass, my lips bumping up against her circle of fingers. Rachel nearly chokes me a few times, but I’m pretty proud of the control I have over my gag reflex. Besides, Bass is starting to drip in my mouth – that little bit of bitterness that makes my brain buzz. I’m vaguely aware of them making out above my head, lips smacking and Bass bending in to reach her. I imagine their tongues tangling inside the hot, shared space of their mouths, and that spurs me too close to my edge. I have to drop myself and focus on finishing Bass.

I find space for my fingers in between hers, and with four hands wringing him plus my mouth, he devolves into moaning and thrusting. When I cup his balls, they contract in sudden conclusion. I swallow compulsively, but some of him still leaks out my smiling lips. Okay, so I harbor a surprising love of swallowing for Bass. What can I say? It’s sexy as hell to taste his pleasure.

Damn, now I feel all fuzzy about him too – it’s not just her. I plop back down and splay out my legs to attend to myself. I don’t really care if they help. I’m pretty contented as is, and hell, they probably deserve a medal for putting up with me. I know damn well I take out my considerable stress on them. But Rachel is scooting forward and tilting my head up again to dip her tongue into my mouth, and Bass…oh fuck, he pushes away my hands to rub a soothing circle into my cockhead with his palm, until I come long and slow all over his hand. It’s such a relief after all that build up that I roll away from Rachel’s mouth above me and fling my arms over my face, so that I can make whatever animal-like sounds have to come out of me.

Yeah. They’re both laughing at me by the time Rachel peels one arm away and Bass the other. Bass wants access to my lips, and I think Rachel just wants to see me flushed and strung-out on lazy afternoon sex. Bass pulls my face into his, the wool of his uniform electrifying the hair on my chest, while Rachel’s nails scrape against my scalp.

“Oh hey, I almost forgot,” Bass pulls back and jams a hand into his pants pocket, crinkling something plastic. “Hershey bar.”

A candy bar in the Republic might as well be diamonds. I wasn’t even a big fan of chocolate before the Power went out, but here I am salivating at the mere sight of that brown wrapper and silver inscription.

Rachel moans (maybe with more gusto than when I went down on her), “Oh, Godddd. Chocolate.”

Bass tears it open along the seam and then snaps it into thirds. He leans back against the window seat next to me, and maybe Rachel gets lonely up there, because she slithers down next to him. We must be a sight – Rachel in her blouse, naked from the waist down, Bass fully clothed with a limp dick hanging from his breached pants, and me bare from the waist up with cum splashed across my stomach – each regarding our precious allotment of candy like kids at Christmas.

I grin at the sight of Bass slipping a square in between Rachel’s pink lips – her eyes closing in ecstasy. When I nibble at mine, the sweetness almost stings, like my brain has forgotten how to process sugar. I close my eyes then, too, and settle back, satisfied. I think about how silly it was that before the Blackout I thought I had to choose between Rachel and Bass. As a flash of bluish light and deep rumble of thunder rattles the glass behind us, I know _this_ is the only way I make sense. And fuck, chocolate _is_ good.


	5. Note "From Your Commanding General"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A huge thank you to Maywitch, the wizard of graphics, for bringing this particular object to life. :)

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: June 12, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Note “From Your Commanding General” _  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: blue pen on yellow notebook paper, tucked into receipt book  
Location: 2D[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: torn in half, fold marks, well-worn

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
Bass

Ransacking of Upper East Side hasn't yielded much, maybe a pound or two of diamonds, a few trunk loads of precious metals, and miscellany.  
I hate NYC with a passion I usually reserve only for Texans. Maybe we can bomb it?  
Anyway, I'll be home tomorrow afternoon, and you better start warming up, because I want to plant my cock in you so badly, it may not go easy for you.

Your Commanding General

 

**Winter 2021: Bass**

Miles saunters toward my desk and drops a battered cardboard box right on top of my paperwork, rattling the adjacent hurricane lamp. He looks excessively pleased, but since a dozen whiskey bottles didn’t shatter upon impact, it’s anyone’s guess what’s inside. I was in the middle of drafting a letter to Governor Affleck; my pen is literally poised midair. Being best friends with Miles can feel a bit like babysitting a toddler. Considering the decade or so age difference between me and my sisters, I should know.

“You get my note?” Miles asks, gravelly voice tempered with cheer.

“Mm hm,” I reply a little wearily, because I was _this_ close to finally hitting upon the proper greeting to that fancy, smug-lipped fucker Affleck. Dropping my pen, I pull out said torn notebook page and wave it brusquely at him. Is he beaming? Christ. Clearly he’s not the one who’s been trapped behind a desk all week.

“What’s in there, bro?” I briefly shift my eyes toward the box. 

“Open it!” Miles encourages, apparently disappointed that I’m not immediately seizing upon the ratty gift he’s brought me. Okay, he’s _far_ too enthusiastic about this. I peel back the cardboard, and when my fingers brush smooth, odd shaped plastic, I extract the thing warily, afraid Miles is pranking me.

“It’s a vagina,” I observe in mild surprise. It _is_ too - a garishly-colored model of the female reproductive system. You can remove the parts and everything. I pop out one of the ovaries and roll it between my fingers.

Miles waggles his eyebrows at me. Okay, not toddler - seventh grader.

I lean my cheek on my fist. “Do you need me to teach you how to please a woman using a visual model? I thought we went over this in high school, bud.”

Miles glowers then. He’s too easy a mark. Well, we both are when it comes to each other. We’ve got way too much history between us. For instance, right now we both know that I’m referencing the fact that I lost my virginity first and held it over Miles’ head for a year until he finally did it with Emma. Miles has always been unduly shy about sharing his body. But I’m okay with that. It only means more Miles for me.

Tossed back into the past, I stretch back in my leather chair, caressing that damn ovary like its a worry stone.

_I’m coming back from baseball practice a full hour late flush with the exhilaration of discovery. Jessica fucking Stevenson - all black nails and wavy blonde hair. She’s got a reputation for being loose. For the past month, she’d taken to sitting in the bleachers very pointedly cheering me on. Finally, today sweaty and mud-soiled, I plopped next to her and asked her if she was a baseball fan. She said she was a fan of **me** and led me by the hand under the bleachers - sinking sun reflecting off the silver. _

_She was pretty aggressive with her tongue in my mouth, but I tried to give her a decent showing. I’m not saying my stomach didn’t tighten a little when she pressed a foil packet into my hand. I mean, thank God for sex ed and those goddamn bananas Miles and I would snicker at. (Miles’ condom sling-shotted into the gym coach’s eye. It was an honest mistake - still, he got detention and worse, chewed out by his pop.) So I managed to get the rubber on with Jessica. It was a little awkward getting my prick in her while standing - also incredibly weird to be inside of another human like that, all warm and slick. I mean, it felt pretty good; it was kind of a rush. And I do feel a little older now, if not all **that** impressed._

_When I knock on the Matheson front door, I don’t wait for a response. If Ben’s home, I’d prefer to avoid the awkward small talk, and Pop Matheson is sure to be at the bar. It’s happy hour. So I thunder up the stairs to Miles’ room. Leaning against the door, I listen for a second to the muffled guitar of Led Zeppelin’s “Good Times Bad Times.” Classic rock - that must mean he’s blowing off his homework for something better. Better knock and make sure he’s not jerking off._

_“Hey, man,” Miles mumbles when he opens up - lean and absurdly tall in his jeans and black t-shirt, raven hair mussed, pale guitar clutched in his right hand. This might be weird to admit, but there’s no happier sight in the world to me than my best friend. His room always smells vaguely of sweaty sheets and his rainwater deodorant. I take a flying leap onto his creaky, twin bed positioned right across from Ben’s. It’s real shitty that Pop makes them share a bedroom, but in a couple of years Ben will finally go to college, which, as far as Ben’s concerned, is like Disney World or heaven._

_Miles plops on the floor below me, picking at his guitar along with “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You,” while I luxuriantly recline, my arms crossed under my head._

_“Welp, I got laid,” I announce, and the guitar stops._

_Wide, brown eyes gaze up at me, aswirl with emotions - what jealousy, surprise? Then he gets a grip and stutters, “Really? Good job, man.”_

_Yeah, it’s a little weird that I’ve done something Miles hasn’t. There’s almost nothing in life we’ve done without the other. I don’t particularly like the feeling of leaving him out. “Now we’ve gotta get **you** laid.”_

But of course, Miles took his time with that. It wasn’t for another year that he and Emma sealed the deal after a Sadie Hawkins’ dance. But then he took two whole fucking weeks to tell me about it. I’m still pissed he held out on me for so long.

_Miles and I are drinking Budweisers in the woods, because we’re cliche like that. It’s five beers in that Miles finally gets this shy expression on his face and admits, “So...Emma and I did it.” He stuffs his mouth with metal hard enough to make his teeth clang._

_My stomach plunges a foot. Fuck. I’ve been encouraging this for the better part of a year; someone remind me why? I’m officially fucking jealous as hell. But I try to play it cool._

_"You sealed the deal!” I ruffle his hair - it’s as glossy as a newborn puppy, goddammit. I don’t want to take my fingers out. He shakes me off, cheeks pink._

_I continue to try to compensate for my tangle of unpleasant feelings with undue enthusiasm. “Awww, that's my boy! I hope you didn't prematurely lose it with her...You did, didn't you!?” Miles is now beat red. “Oh man, you're shit at this. I'm going to have to teach you how to please a woman! Let's pretend this is a vulva.” I hold up my fist, pointing to the slit between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you know what a vulva is? Here is her clitoris, here is her vagin-arrggggg!" Miles has lunged at me, his knee in my back, pressing my face into the grass. Yep, a puppy. A very strong puppy._

My lips turn up at the memories, as I’m shuffling through the rest of the box with Miles, still seated in my leather chair.

“So where’d you get this stuff anyway?” I ask. There is a respectable assortment of condoms. Ribbed, mint-flavored, hot pink.

“We ransacked a Planned Parenthood in New York,” Miles shrugs, flashing me an ectoplasm green condom. “Do you think this’d make my dick glow?”

I shake my head and laugh. “Christ. Remember how those things used to get bombed back in the day? People would get bent out of shape over the weirdest shit.” Miles waves the chartreuse condom in my face until I forcibly seize it from him with a “Give that to me, Slimer!” and try to stuff it in his ear.

When he finishes girl-fight swatting me, he perches a diaphragm atop his head like a yarmulke. I snatch it off and chide, “Gimme that! We could actually use that you know.”

“Really, what is it?”

“Oh, Miles. So innocent.”

He glares. 

“It’s a diaphragm, love. If it fits our girl, we could maybe dispense with the rubbers for once.” It’s a little sad how much his eyes light up at that. I can’t really blame him, considering there is something so much juicier and more delicious about having hetero sex bare-skinned. I mean, homo sex, too of course, but we haven’t used condoms for that in years. Okay, I’m officially hard. I push back my chair and drift around to Miles’ side of the desk, eager to see if he’s ready to make good on his note. 

I grab right for his crotch like it’s candy, and Miles practically squeaks. It’s so cute and hilarious, I immediately lose it.

“A little warning, horndog!” he grouses, his cheeks reddening beneath his stubble. Right, Miles. _I’m_ the horndog.

“Oh, you’re just embarrassed because I made you squeak, you dick.” I rub my palm against him, and of course he jumps in my hand. I know Rachel and I share a love of how fast Miles gets hard for us. It definitely makes you feel wanted. 

His intense brown eyes peer at me, and he relaxes a bit into my hand, sliding his calloused fingers over my neck. I don’t know what’s got me so nostalgic today, but I ask: 

“You remember our first time?”

Miles exhales a little laugh. He’s sentimental enough that he humors me: “Which one?” 

That he asks melts my heart a little. The first time we ever touched was in high school - junior year when Emma had broken up with Miles for a bit. He was taking it pretty hard, of course. He’s Miles. He gets all twisted up over the women he loves - more than over me, it seems. In any case, we were drinking in his room. His dad was away for the weekend and Ben already at college. Miles was pretty wasted; he’d probably had twice as many as I had. And he just looked so damn good in his ripped jeans with no shirt on.

_“M’gonna take off my pants,” Miles slurs matter-of-factly, before promptly unbuttoning his fly._

_“What are you **doing** , man?” I laugh, but I can’t peel my eyes away from those giant fingers, working open his pants. I’ve seen him a thousand times in his boxers, but there’s just something about him right now. He’s finally grown into his gangly body. His muscles are all tightly coiled, and he’s got fucking chest hair and a nice trail of dark fur down to his bellybutton and beyond… Christ, is my mouth watering?_

_“Hot,” Miles explains, squirming around on his bed to disrobe. I’m splayed on Ben’s old bed myself and feel my dick harden inappropriately between my legs. It’s not just the alcohol that’s got me turned on. I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that I have a completely destructive crush on my best friend._

_“Yeah you are,” I mutter aloud without thinking and then gasp. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck! Maybe I **am** drunk. Miles may not have heard, he’s lying there only in his black shorts, running a hand over his face distractedly._

_Unbidden, my feet are carrying me over to him like I don’t regret what I’ve said after all. I grab the hem of my t-shirt and pull it over my head, electrifying my curls. Then I nudge him, and he actually scoots over to make room on the bed. He rests a hand under his head, staring up at the ceiling - the spicy-clean scent of his dark armpit hair inordinately appealing. Oh Christ. I’m so hard that my zipper is cutting into my dick. Why isn’t he moving away in disgust when I’m lying here leering at him?_

_I slide a finger through his chest hair and over his nipple, which stiffens. Miles’ chocolate eyes shift to me. Thank God he’s not a talker. I have no idea what either of us would say right now. I draw my hand down his chest and stomach until I reach cotton, and I don’t even stop until my fingers are splayed lightly over his crotch. Oh. He’s hard too._

_He pulls my hand tightly away by the wrist, and I think that’s it - he’s about to punch me in disgust - but instead he touches my knuckles to his lips and whispers, “Take off your pants, Bass.”_

_I don’t think I’ve made quicker work of anything in my life. I roll on top of him in my own thin shorts, my cock just poking through the flap. I press my hardness down into his as Miles cups my chin, guiding my lips against his. I actually fucking moan into his mouth; I’ve never made that sound before. This is all I’ve ever wanted. He pushes apart my lips with his tongue and uses his left hand to urge my butt harder into him. The fabric of our underwear gets a little bunched, so Miles pauses the kiss to pull up his dick from the waistband of his shorts, and I do the same. I shiver at the velvet on velvet of our cocks meeting for the first time._

_We kiss for what seems like hours, but it’s probably just a few minutes, because we’re teenagers and finish fast. I feel his muscles start to jerk under me, and that sets me off. We come on each others’ stomachs, smashed up against one another, panting into the other’s mouths, and even though I’ve already banged multiple women by the time I’m sixteen, I think to myself, “So this is what sex is supposed to be like.” It’s the most perfect thing that’s ever happened to me._

The full-grown Miles standing in front of me has cocked his head and paused with his hand on my cheek. “You still with me, Bass?”

“Yeah,” I grin. I have been drifting a lot today. Maybe he _should_ be worried. But I begin unbuttoning his jacket, so he works on my pants. I get him stripped half-naked, my fingers tracing the slightly raised skin of his tattoos. He’s crouched at my feet helping me out of my boots and pants, while I think on our other first time.

It was even better, because it was the beginning of something real. It’s the first time I knew he actually wanted me - that I wasn’t just a drunken mistake. It was five months or so after our first tour. We’d both needed time to get over the disappointment of Emma. Miles, I understand - he thought he was going to marry her. But my fixation? It was a little crazy. I was desperately relieved when it finally drained out of my system. Of course that just meant my ever-present crush on Miles was dominating my waking hours in force again. Emma was nothing but a diversion - a misplaced infatuation. Miles was, is, and always will be a full-blown obsession. At this point, Miles and I had been assigned to Parris Island, so being surrounded by a bunch of macho Marines all the time was a bit inconvenient for fantasizing about your best friend. 

Miles had been really quiet lately - I mean, quiet _er_. I’m probably the only person who would be able to tell. When we finally got a twenty-four hour pass, and I asked him what he wanted to do, I was surprised when he said: “I have something planned for us.”

“For…” I couldn’t bring myself to repeat what I instantly decided was my favorite one-syllable word in the world: _us_. “You planned something?” I tried instead.

He nodded, and his eyes said, _Trust me_ , and I did. We got into his Challenger and drove to the Hampton Inn in Bluffton, which I know doesn’t sound romantic, but when we pulled up, he turned to me and said:

“I want you. And I don’t want it to be rushed.” He drew his pinky across the back of my hand, his other fingers still resting on the stick shift. A wave of chills descended my spine.

And those were like the most romantic words anyone has ever said to me. He was prepared, too, with lube, condoms, whatever we’d need. He’d been thinking about it for awhile. I have no idea what got him the mental distance from Emma to me. He never told me.

He was both gentle and uninhibited - used his tongue and everything like there was nothing about me that could put him off. We tried until it worked, and then we made love over and over again until our time was up, and we were expected back on base. Driving back with the windows down, sea breeze against my cheeks, in my mind I went back over every vein and ridge of his dick; I’d memorized every milimeter. And I finally decided it was okay to let myself love him.

That feels like another lifetime ago. Miles, the general, is completely wrapped up in removing my shoes and socks, my hands on his shoulders for support as I step out of my pants. His own wool pants are distorted by an enormous sideways boner. 

“You know what would make this better?” he says with a grin. “If I fucked you on a bed.” With that he begins pushing me backward toward the double doors to Rachel’s room. “She won’t mind,” he assures, craning his arm around behind me to rap on her door.

“Come in!” she calls. Then he’s ushering me into her room in a state of grabby-handed, half-dress that must at least vaguely surprise her. I glance at her writing at her secretary, and she looks very fetching and domestic in the afternoon light. She shoves the end of her pen into her mouth, blonde eyebrows raised.

“Hey, Rach. Mind if we use your bed?” Miles inquires in passing with a kind of playfulness I doubt I’ve heard from him since the Blackout hit, as he’s aggressively working my shorts off, still walking me backward. 

I hear her say something in protest, but damned if I’m listening now, because Miles, dropped to one knee like an amorous knight-in-shining-armor, is trying to blow me while simultaneously maneuvering me onto Rachel’s bed. It was neatly made until we got here, but I’m already bunching the blankets in my fists and sweating as Miles pumps his lips down and up my shaft before backing off to unlace his boots. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and let him finish undressing. When he’s done, he pulls me to the edge of the bed, brown eyes studying me from the floor and _fuck!_ his tongue is warm and soft against my hole. I’m suddenly a little self-conscious at being this cracked open in front of Rachel without her participation. I force my eyes open to look at her, but she’s still sitting at her desk, legs primly crossed, chewing on the end of her pen. Her shimmering eyes are trained on us, on _me_ \- my spread legs and Miles’ tongue coaxing me open.

“God,” I moan, as my muscles loosen. I throw my head back just as he guides two wet fingers into me. I’m coming completely undone. And Rachel’s going to see it all. 

When Miles appears pleased with his work he leans over me, necklace tickling my chest, and threads his fingers through mine, pulling me further up the bed. His hot mouth covers my lips, dominant and smothering, and fuck do I love it. I even know where his mouth has been, and I don’t care. I give myself over entirely, letting my knees fall open on either side of him. 

He pauses to spit-slick his cock before pushing urgently against me. There’s always this moment when I think I’m not going to be able to take him, he’s so big. But my body remembers him every goddamn time. And despite his aggression, he’s a surprisingly careful lover. 

“Fuck,” I whine through my teeth as he slides into me, claiming my insides. He looks remarkably self-satisfied when his dark eyes hover just inches above mine. He nips at my bottom lip and smiles - like, shows-his-teeth smiles. Miles is...happy. He’s happy because he has everything he wants - me and her? 

He makes love to me so deeply I feel his balls slapping short and quick against my ass. He never lets go of my hands, as he barrels toward his edge. My brain short-circuits, and I’m blathering cuss words, affection, his name, who the fuck knows? I remember then: Rachel is watching. She must think I’m his total wanton bitch. But he’s coming. Shit. Oh shit, it’s so deep and wet, and it’s so fucking weird to have someone pulling their dick down the length of your passage, and then tugging out your entrance. I gape and clench, his seed dribbling out, totally debauched.

Miles collapses half on me, one heavy leg in between mine, his face buried in the bed beside my cheek. I turn to kiss his damp hair, while he lightly palms my cock back to life. He rolls his face to look over at Rachel and mutters, “You want something, babe?” 

He’s so spent, I can’t imagine him giving anyone anything at this point. I glance at Rachel just as she’s pulling her fingers out the top of her pants. Fuck, that’s unexpectedly hot. All of a sudden I’m jealous of her fingers. My dick lurches to attention under Miles’ hand. He squeezes harder in appreciation and that makes me throb.

“Rachel,” I call, my voice thin and unnatural sounding. I beckon wildly in the air and hope she accurately translates this as a gentlemanly proposition to ‘Come hither so I can finger you.’ 

She smirks, unbuttoning her black slacks and letting them crumple on the floor. Stepping out of them, she crosses the room in long strides and crawls up on the bed beside me, a small, delicate hand sliding over my chest. I nudge Miles off me, his strokes on me growing more and more sluggish anyway.

Tugging Rachel in close to my side, I roll towards her, our legs tangling and my cock trapped up against her stomach. She runs her fingers through my hair, grinding hard on my thigh, which is instantly drenched. Christ, women are wet creatures, aren’t they? Burying a hand between us, even as Rachel is sucking on my jaw, I push two fingers past the edge of her saturated, black panties. She moans softly, right next to my ear, and hitches her thigh up over mine so she can spread her legs as wide as our tight position will allow.

Crooking inside her, I rub the pads of my fingers against the uneven patch of her front wall. Rachel rests her forehead against my cheek, one hand hooking under my arm and the other tripping down to curl around my cock. Her breath catches, and she clenches down on my fingers, drawing me deeper inside her. Back arching, she rides my fingers impatiently until I cup my hand up, heel digging into her clit.

She kneads my cock a little rougher than I really like: Christ, Rach, I’m not Miles, but I’ll forgive her. She’s distracted after all. She emits this little whimper, nuzzling deeper against me, her fingers tightening around my shoulder. God, she smells good, smooth waves tickling my cheek.

At the sound of her whimper, Miles actually rolls his head toward us to look, his dark eyebrow arched. He peels her fingers away from me and laughs softly, “Don’t break him, Rach,” his cracked hand taking over after he douses it in spit.

She latches onto me with her now free hand, sliding a bare foot onto the mattress for leverage, and bouncing against my thigh. I wish she’d taken her blouse off too; I want to feel the soft crush of her breasts on my bare chest. Thrusting my fingers inside her, I draw the hair off her neck, my lips descending on the elegant curve of her throat. 

Miles molds himself to my side - all tight, hair-lined muscles and soft, warm balls - and, brushing my wrist out of the way, rubs the tip of my cock against her clit. A strangled yelp escapes her pink lips, and Rachel throws her head back, clinging to me. Miles fucks us into each other, his face buried in my shoulder, and she gushes over my fingers with her eyes slammed shut and her mouth open. My fingers are still locked inside her as I abruptly lose it, drenching her trim black panties. I wonder idly if she has a single piece of clothing left without Miles’ or my cum on it.

Rachel lies beside me, panting, and it’s odd for her to be quite this silent, but she told me once that watching Miles and I together takes her breath away. Miles’ stubbled cheek slaps gently against my pec, and I clumsily thread my fingers into his hair.

It suddenly comes back to me how we got tangled up here in the first place: Miles looting the Upper East Side Planned Parenthood. And that inevitably leads me back to the work I’m not accomplishing. Damn letter to Affleck. If only my job solely consisted of me and Miles sending cutesy letters to each other from the field and then joyously threesome-fucking in the afternoon. 

“Guess what we found for you, Rachel?” I’m avoiding the impending return to paperwork as long as possible. I feel rather than see her raise an eyebrow.

“A diaphragm.” 

Miles actually twists his neck to look keenly up at her face.

“Mmm. That sounds nice,” she affirms, her eyes closing but her mouth smiling. “Of course, I’ll have to see if it fits first. Have Molly bring me some boiling water when you leave, and I’ll check. 

I can’t really picture how you’d get a thing like that up there. Women and their vaginal mysteries. (Hence the model with removable parts.)

I begin to extract my limbs from the pile, and both my bed partners voice their complaints. It’s not that I _want_ to write that letter to that whiny-ass lord of the hippies. But we need access to the California fruit and vegetable bounty like yesterday. These two sap my will to get anything productive done, and we’ll all starve. 

“Listen, ball and chain,” I nod at each of them in turn, standing and retrieving my boxer shorts. “As the responsible one in this trio, I’m going to get back to work. I’ll expect a full report on the diaphragm at 22:00, Rach. And you, General, are coming with me to help me figure out what we can offer Governor Crap-fleck in exchange for his tomatoes.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

I roll my eyes at Miles and help him up, smacking his ass as he gathers his clothes and heads back toward my office. Hell, I’d better remember to hide his note before someone sees it.

I give Rachel a reluctant parting glance. She’s all stretched out like a cat in her afternoon sunbeam, except, you know, debauched with my cum. There’s something indescribably more satisfying about governing the Republic with her around, than when it was just Miles and I scrabbling to hold things together. Against all odds, she stabilizes us.


	6. Mexican Folk Art Monkey Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apologies to our Spanish-speaking readers: neither of us knows Spanish. All Ambassador Juarez’s lines have been translated from English using the tool reverso.net, most likely resulting in some stilted and awkward phrasing! We hope you can overlook it without too much agony.
> 
> Also trigger warning: the ambassador makes a cruel comment about sexual orientation.

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: June 13, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: Kendra Chang  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact: _ Mexican folk art monkey mask_  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: A carved wooden mask in the traditional Mexican style, painted to look like a monkey.  
Location: 2C[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Badly scorched, but otherwise intact

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
N/A

 

**Winter 2020: Rachel**

“You speak Spanish, don’t you, Rachel?” Bass is sitting across from me at the dining table in his office, buttering his toast and talking through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

Miles kicks him under the table and I hide a smile behind my teacup. “We _talked_ about this, man!” 

“I do,” I murmur, squinting in the morning sunlight as it streams through the windows. “Why?”

“Well.” He wipes at his mouth with a napkin, ignoring Miles’ groan of protest. “The asshole ambassador from Mexico is coming this afternoon and he insists on conducting all meetings in Spanish, even though his English is probably better than ours is. We need a translator.” 

“Haven’t you waited a bit long to find a translator? You must have known he was coming for at least a few weeks.” 

“We had someone lined up but he… fell through.” He crams the toast in his mouth and I don’t press for more information. When Bass is vague and euphemistic, I probably don’t want to know.

Miles glares at Bass, hand fisted around his coffee mug filled halfway with whiskey (he really is a drunk.) “You don’t have to do this, Rachel.” 

“Is there some reason you don’t want me to, Miles?” I shoot back with an arched eyebrow, swiping a pat of soft butter across my bread. “Afraid I’ll hear something I shouldn’t and use it against you?” 

He rolls his eyes, taking a swig of whiskey. “Come on, you know that’s not it. It just isn’t safe. We have an awful lot of enemies. If people knew what you mean to us, you’d be in danger.” 

“I’m sure more people than you realize know there’s a woman held captive in Independence Hall.” I take a bite of my scrambled eggs and Miles glares into his mug. I may not know what the rumors are saying but surely they exist and surely the boys know what they are. They know everything that goes on in their little kingdom, don’t they? 

Bass clears his throat, reaching for my hand across the table. “He doesn’t have to know who she is,” he addresses to Miles. “Hopefully he won’t even be here that long. And we _need_ a translator.” 

“Fine. _Fine_. You’re the diplomat around here. Do whatever you want,” he growls in that resigned voice that always means he knew he was going to lose from the very beginning. 

Bass winks, brushing a kiss over my knuckles, and I stifle my laugh with a cough. He’s been more at ease with me lately and it seems he’s been listening too: I’ve been itching for more freedom, more responsibility. 

It’s just after lunch when Bass lets himself into my room without knocking. I’m seated at the vanity, pinning my hair up, bobby pins clutched between my teeth, and he swings a leg over the bench, settling in behind me. Our eyes meet in the mirror as he fiddles with an unused bobby pin lying next to my brush. “Thanks for doing this,” he murmurs, watching me tuck more pins into place. 

I lean into him when I’m finished, and he ghosts the back of his hand over my cheek with genuine fondness in his eyes. At least, he’s seemed more and more genuine lately, though his moods are volatile. “Is Miles mad?” I ask softly, not wanting to break the stillness that always settles over the Hall in the afternoon. 

“Nah.” Bass tucks an errant piece of hair behind my ear. “Or, if he is, he’ll get over it. We’d have had to reschedule with El Jefe otherwise.” 

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yes, you’re _such_ a diplomat. You’ve really nailed the art of political correctness.”

He laughs, lips nearly against my neck. It tickles and he knows it; twisting around, I catch him in a brief, familiar kiss that leaves him smiling, those brilliant white teeth as irresistible as ever. “Hey, I can be diplomatic. He’s just an asshole. How do you say asshole in Spanish?”

“I’m not telling you. You’ll insult the Mexican ambassador to his face and go to war over a tequila factory,” I mumble against his lips, relishing the press of his hips behind me. 

“Mm, you’re too smart for me.” His tongue flicks out over my bottom lip, one hand trailing over the inside of my thigh, thumb just barely dipping in between my legs as he digs in his pocket with the other hand. “I have something for you.” 

Bass’ moods are so inconsistent that some days, like right now, I think he might actually be in love with me. I don’t know how I feel about that. It’s an unsettling thing to be loved by such an unstable man and worse still to care about him in return. He emerges with a small, slightly battered box and holds it out to me. Lifting an eyebrow, I take it slowly, not sure what to make of him. Is this from him or from both of them? It’s not that they never bring me gifts but they’re almost always books. This looks more like… I lift the small lid off and immediately bite my lip. ...jewelry. 

A small pair of freshwater pearl earrings lie in the box, staring up at me expectantly. A lump forms in my throat and I have to swallow over it, unable to look up from the box. “They looked like you,” Bass murmurs in my ear, arms tightening around me. “Actually, it was Miles’ idea.”

I glance up in surprise, feeling a smile lift the corners of my eyes. “They’re beautiful, Bass. Thank you.” 

“Wear them today?”

I don’t know when else I’d ever wear them: it’s not like I have any reason to get dressed up. He sounds so oddly sweet and hopeful, though, I can’t help leaning into him, a small smile on my face. “Of course.” 

There’s a rap on the door and Bass mumbles for them to come in, kissing a line down the column of my neck as I reach up to put the earrings in. Miles pokes his head in, looking freshly washed, his hair still slightly damp from the bath. He licks his lips when he sees us but straightens, hand tight on the doorknob. “Juarez and his guys just got here. They’ll be up in a minute, if you two are done making out.” 

I duck my head to hide a smile as Bass unwinds himself from me and stands. He walks into the office but not before smacking Miles on the ass and narrowly dodging a punch for it. I shake my head with a laugh (they really are _boys_ ) and, stand up from the vanity, feeling more polished than I have in two years. My back feels straighter and my cheeks feel rosier: isn’t that ridiculous? It’s amazing what a little purpose can do. Pressing up onto my toes, I brush a kiss over Miles’ lips, his hand instinctively settling at my jaw. 

“Nice earrings,” he rumbles, flicking a finger against one. 

I feel myself blush, stroking the back of his hand on my cheek. “Thanks. I heard they were your idea.” He grunts and I take it as confirmation. “You’re not really mad, are you?” I whisper and he shakes his head with a sigh. 

“Just don’t want you to get hurt,” he whispers back, resting his forehead on mine. 

“Considering the circumstances, I think you should stop worrying about me.” Miles flinches and I soothe the bite of my comment with another kiss before stepping around him into the office. It’s true: he worries about me constantly, frets when I’m bored, frets when I cough, frets when I ‘spend too much time at the windows - someone might see’, but he forgets that he’s still my captor. I feel a flash of guilt though and squeeze his hand as he walks past me to the whiskey tray.

Bass sinks into his chair and I try one last time to tame his curls with my fingers, my hand falling back to my side just before the door swings open on Captain Lennox. “Ambassador Juarez, sir,” he announces, throwing me a tiny, surprised smile and a wave. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Bass says in that deep, official voice, leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking under him. I stand at his side, Miles at the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand, and for just the briefest of moments, it feels so _right_. The three of us, we could set this country straight. 

I quash that train of thought as the ambassador marches into the office in a garish yellow suit, his hair slicked back even more obnoxiously than Miles’, followed by two bodyguards, their arms loaded down with gifts. Bass stands, walking around the desk and extending a hand. “Embajador Juarez,” he says in greeting, his pronunciation atrocious but the effort valiant, shaking the man’s hand vigorously. “I trust you had a fine trip up.” 

“Presidente Monroe! Sí, gracias, el viaje era muy liso. Aunque frío! Sus noches podrían congelar el sol encima de aquí.” His men’s laughter is dull but he seems satisfied; Bass shoots me a helpless look so I walk around the desk with a smile pasted on. 

“This is Ms. Porter. She’ll be our translator for today.” 

Extending my hand to the ambassador, I translate for him, introducing myself: “Soy la Sra. Porter. Seré su traductor para hoy.” 

He bows his head, bending over my hand before taking it between both of his. I can feel Bass and Miles starting to glower already. “Usted es mucho más hermoso que su último traductor, Sra. Porter. Qué hace tal belleza consumirse encima de aquí con estos chuchos?” 

I laugh appropriately, impossibly grateful the boys don’t know what he’s saying as I extract my hand from his, ignoring the twin stares pinned on me. “Soy parcial a chuchos,” I explain, my voice a bit sharper than it probably ought to be, and his eyes narrow as if sizing me up. 

Bass clears his throat and I flush, nodding for him to go ahead. “Ambassador, you remember General Matheson,” he says, gesturing to Miles who lifts a reluctant hand in greeting.

He nods enthusiastically, walking over to shake Miles’ hand. “Desde luego, General! Su leyenda sólo crece entre cada una de mis visitas.” 

“Your legend only grows between each of his visits,” I murmur, hands folded in front of me. 

Miles shakes his hand, barely restraining a grimace. His ‘legend’ is occasionally useful but I think it still bothers him to be known as a butcher and a tyrant. “Uh, thanks.” 

“Won’t you sit down, Ambassador?” Bass offers, gesturing to the seating area. 

“Por favor, antes de que nosotros nos pongamos al negocio, he traído regalos!” Juarez protests, nodding to his men.

Bass glances at me and I translate: “Before we get to business, he has brought gifts.” 

“Of course. Thank you. You’re very generous.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Miles roll his eyes and refill his whiskey. 

The ambassador waves over the first bodyguard, who holds out a stack of folded cloth and a bottle of tequila. Miles, for one, perks up. “La tequila más fina, de la destilería de mi hermano.” The bodyguard holds out the tequila for Bass to take. 

“The finest tequila, from his brother’s distillery,” I translate as Miles appears beside us, inspecting the label less discreetly than he thinks. 

“Thank you, Ambassador. I’m sure we’ll enjoy this very much,” Bass says, with more enthusiasm than I think he’ll be able to drum up for anything else about this meeting. 

Juarez nods in satisfaction as the bodyguard unfolds one of the pieces of woven materials to reveal a poncho. I bite my lip over a laugh, trying to keep a neutral, straight face. “Ponchos, para sus noches muy frías.” He pauses, eyes darting over me suggestively, and I press my lips together, staring right back at him. “Aunque quizás usted sea ya la abundancia caliente. Usted no tiene que traducir aquel bit, mi querido.” He has the audacity to wink and I clear my throat before translating. 

“Ponchos, for your very cold nights.” The boys stare at me expectantly but I don’t translate the rest, as per Juarez’s request. They’d kill him anyway so it’s probably best if I keep it to myself. 

“Come on, even I know what ‘caliente’ means, Rach,” Miles mutters into his glass, standing directly behind me so only I can hear, though his comfortable proximity likely does little to convince Juarez he’s wrong about us. 

Bass is saying his thank yous and Juarez motions over the second bodyguard who removes the lid from a small crate and lifts out a carved, wooden mask. “Y esto es el más especial de todo: una máscara de gente tradicional mexicana,” the ambassador announces, barely restraining the smirk that threatens to break across his face. 

“And this is the most special of all: a traditional Mexican folk mask,” I murmur, hoping I manage to hide my wince. 

“It’s a…” Bass glances at me and Miles as if he’s at a loss for words. “...monkey. Thank you, Ambassador Juarez. This is very special, indeed.” 

I wasn’t sure what this meeting was about but I pick it up quickly: the boys need money, and Juarez isn’t willing to part with a cent of his country’s impressive stores of silver without very good reason. He considers us barbarians up here in the North, that much is obvious. _Us? When did I start to consider myself a part of this messed up little Cabinet?_

The negotiations go as any first meeting can be expected to go: tense, loaded with unspoken rivalries (that aren’t helped by the forced language barrier), and full of pandering. 

I sit to Bass’ right, he and Miles in the armchairs, Juarez on the couch and his men standing behind him. It’s odd to be here in what I consider my living room on most days with the boys barely looking at me except when I murmur translations. Juarez continues to flirt and I continue _not_ translating. 

It’s generally uncomfortable but mindless work and I find myself drifting, wondering what the boys hope to get out of this, what I’m helping them do. If they get this loan, what will they do with the money? Will they go to war again, conquer more territories, buy more weapons? Or will they, finally, start to fix some of the roads that crisscross this ‘country’ and set up a police system to _protect_ the people, not just take their crops and children? 

My eyes flicker over to the boys (my boys): Miles slouched in his chair, looking, accurately, like he’d rather be anywhere else and Bass perched on the edge of the seat, his whiskey barely touched and the condensation so slick on his hand I’m afraid he’ll drop it. They look nervous, especially Bass. We must really need this money. 

Finally, the men stand and I rise with them, barely remembering the last ten minutes of conversation, I’ve been so lost in thought. Juarez extends a hand and they all shake as if it’s ended amicably, but I think that’s a bit of an overstatement. Finally, the ambassador turns to thank me for my services: “Usted ha sido un placer. Usted está seguro que no puedo convencerle de irse de estos dos tontos de un clima más agradable?”

My nostrils flare at that and I keep my hands at my sides, knowing he won’t initiate. “Afraid not, Ambassador. They might be fools but they’re my fools.” It’s stupid and I flush as soon as the words leave my mouth, Juarez’s eyes widening in surprise, as if he didn’t expect me to stand up to him, let alone all but confess to being their kept woman. Miles and Bass both shift their weight, hands clenching at their sides; it’s really one thing to know someone thinks you’re an idiot but another to be told straight to your face. 

Then again, they have everything to lose here and Juarez has nothing. “Yes, well,” he switches to flawless, if heavily-accented, English, “even in Mexico we have heard about the Generals’ _foolish_ sodomy. I suppose they swing both ways for you, though.” 

You really could hear a pin drop on the dusty hardwood floor. 

And then he laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Just rumors of course! When we are at peace, the gossip rags will print anything, won’t they?” My first thought is: _If he thinks he can treat people like this without any backlash, Mexico won’t be powerful for long_. My second is: _He considers this_ peace _?_

Bass recovers first, clapping his hands together (to keep from strangling him, I think.) “Huh. Right,” he laughs and it pinches a little to see them grovel so, even if the next sentence makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, “That’s why we don’t have ‘press’.” 

“Ah, and you are a smart man, Presidente! We should follow your example.” His wink is as condescending as everything else he does and then Bass is ushering him out, everyone clearly eager to have this meeting finished. _Terminado._

The door is barely closed before Miles is growling, slamming his glass down on the table. “Who the _fuck_ does he think he is?” 

Juarez is probably barely down the stairs and he almost certainly heard that, but I don’t think either of them cares. Bass runs a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to punch the wall. I’m glad he doesn’t: apparently we’re too poor to patch it. 

“What did he say to you?” Miles demands suddenly, rounding on me. “There was an awful lot you didn’t translate.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I was a woman in the DOD. I’ve handled my fair share of sexist jackasses, believe me.” 

“I know you can handle yourself, Rach. That’s not what I’m asking.”

Nudging him back into his seat, I sink onto his knee and rest my head on his shoulder. “He hit on me. Poorly. And insulted the weather and the two of you. Don’t _worry_ about it.” 

Bass lines three tumblers up on the coffee table, unbuckling the belt at his waist with one hand, the tequila bottle clutched in the other. 

“I could wring his neck and I don’t even know what he said. You shouldn’t have had to go through that,” Miles grumbles, arm curling around me as he nudges Bass pointedly with his toe. 

“Don’t blame him,” I sigh, swinging my legs down so my back is pressed against Miles’ chest, thighs spread over his, as Bass hands me a glass with half an inch of tequila in the bottom. “It would have been worse if you’d had to reschedule or find another translator. At least I could handle him. Someone else might have really screwed it over.” I know Miles is thinking I’m a liability though, that having Juarez suspect there’s a woman in their lives, someone he can manipulate and threaten, is a risk. He’s right, of course, and there’s nothing I can do about that. After so long with so little control over my life, you’d think I would be used to the feeling of helplessness. 

I’m not. 

Bass hands Miles’ his glass before sinking to the floor between our legs, leaning his head against my thigh, and dragging the wooden mask down off the coffee table with him. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” he gripes. “God, he’s an asshole.” 

I clink the edge of my glass on each of theirs before throwing back the shot. It burns down my throat and I barely stifle the little whine that threatens to break out of me. “Good tequila, I’ll give him that.” Leaning over Bass, I set the glass back on the table, and he takes the opportunity to nuzzle my thigh. 

“You smell good,” he mumbles into my slacks and I relax back against Miles. A wool-covered arm comes up just beneath my breasts and I sink down, soles of my shoes skimming the floor and fingers tangled in Bass’ curls. Miles runs the pad of his thumb over my nipple, hard beneath the thin fabric, and then Bass is diving in to open the button on my pants. 

He grunts below me, kicking the mask aside so it skitters across the hardwood. “ _Fucking monkey_ ,” he mutters into the crease in my thigh and I laugh, smoothing the lines in his forehead with my thumb. 

“Forget about him, Bass.” I smile lightly, eyes closing as Miles sucks my earlobe into his mouth, pearl earring and all. “Just us now.” 

He yanks my shoes off, dropping them to the rug with a dull clunk, and drags the slacks down my hips. “I don’t think you two get how broke we are. We need that son of a bitch! We’re Adams in the Netherlands, begging for dough.” 

Miles and I both turn raised eyebrows on him but he shrugs us off and then, admittedly, I don’t really care because he’s tonguing me through my panties. Miles has dipped his fingers between my legs too, thin black cloth stretched over his massive hand as he plays with my clit. I let myself go boneless between them, fingers lacing with Miles’ at my waist, and in a few minutes, I’m coming hard, soaking the fabric that separates me from Bass’ mouth. His thumbs come away slick, leaving a trail of wetness down my thighs. Grinding into Miles, I find him hard and ready behind me; it doesn’t matter how many times we do this, the press of Miles’ cock is always addictive and flattering.

I lean back into him, lips brushing his cheek as I whisper, “Want you inside me.” That never fails to spur him into action and, sure enough, he’s unbuckling his pants in a second and swiping a condom from his pocket as he pulls his dick out. It brushes the curve of my ass and I have to suppress a shudder, even as I turn back to find Bass standing in front of me, his pants loosened at the waist but straining over an obvious bulge. 

Smirking, I let Bass step between my legs, his fingers trailing through my hair, and drop a kiss to his hip. Behind me, Miles rolls the condom on and jerks my hip back against him. I groan my protest before he lifts me a bit more gently, tugging my panties aside with one hand and guiding me onto him. I can’t tell you what that feels like, Bass cradling my head against his bare stomach, hard cock obscured by cotton just inches below my chin, and Miles inside me, stretching me open.

I catch my breath, kissing a tequila-raw trail over Bass’ stomach as he pushes his pants down. They fall to his ankles and I grow just that much wetter at the sight of him hard for me before ducking to take his tip in my mouth. One of them gasps, this little strangled sound, and whichever of them it was, _I_ made them make that sound. It’s intoxicating, having that much power over the two most powerful men in, well, in _North_ America, if not Central America. 

I take Bass a little deeper, rolling my hips against Miles and feeling his hand brace at my side, fucking me on him slow and deep. The zipper on his pants is digging into my ass, the rough fabric of his trousers scraping tender, delicate skin. Really, the angle’s not very good for either of us but he rocks up into me and I have to say: even when it’s awkward or messy or uncomfortable, sex with Miles is _always_ good. His hand slides up my back as he leans forward, pressing even tighter against my walls and burying his face in my shoulder. Bass gives a short thrust, bumping the back of my throat, and immediately apologizes for it with a tug on my hair, too far gone to vocalize his apology. 

I suppose, with both of them inside me, maybe I _should_ feel like the whore Juarez obviously thinks I am. But I don’t. Rather, I feel sort of… loved. 

I consciously squeeze the muscles inside me around Miles, as best I can with my hands digging into Bass’ hips and ass. It’s a slow, agonizing sort of lay but finally (and yet, abruptly enough that it startles me) Miles jerks and Bass holds me steady, the flat of my tongue pressed under the curve of his cock as Miles comes hard. _God_ , he’s intense, his hands fisted at my hips and his nose pressed against my spine, hot breath puffing through my shirt. By the time I think he’s finished, Bass is pulling out of my mouth without sufficient warning and I’m coughing, still clinging to him. 

The sight of Miles so undone must have been too much for him because he’s jerking his hand over his cock and coming across my shirt. It’s probably ruined now but with Bass’ come sticking my blouse to my breasts and Miles’ fingers suddenly shoved beneath my panties again, I’m a little preoccupied. 

Bass drops to his knees, almost before he’s finished, and I pitch forward into his arms, gasping and panting against the curve of his neck. I come clenching hard on Miles who rests his forehead on my shoulder, happy to let me use him however I need. Bass gathers me into his arms so Miles can right himself and I wind my arms around his neck, sliding off Miles’ lap to the floor. Resting my head on Bass’ shoulder, I slowly catch my breath and when I look up, Miles is standing and running his hands through his hair. 

“Where are you going?” Bass mumbles to him against my temple.

“Out.” He says it with an almost-smile on his face, like he’s laughing at his own mysteriousness, but I notice he fails to make eye contact with either of us as he focuses on his zipper for an inordinately long time. He’s doing that thing where he acts all distant when actually he’s just hurt and doesn’t know how to deal with it. It takes me a moment to consider _why_ he has so abruptly soured on our post-coital cuddle. Something Bass or I did? 

“Miles-” I reach up for his hand, and he briefly clasps it, before stepping around me to shove both hands in his pockets. Finally, it registers: Miles has been acting so concerned with what Juarez insinuated about _me_ , but if anything about that conversation would weigh on him, it’s being referred to as a foolish sodomizer. My chest tightens. He’s so tough and armored, it’s easy to forget how sensitive Miles really is. 

I’m about to argue that he shouldn’t take that son of a bitch to heart, when Bass protests, scrambling up and leaving me on the floor in my panties. “Hey, wait. So you have time to fuck but not to actually make yourself useful? We need to figure this out. We’re-” 

“Aw, Bass. You know I’m shit at math anyway. I’ll see you two later.” The door clicks behind him and Bass heaves a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“We’re broke,” he finishes, muttering under his breath. I lift my hands and he hauls me up to my feet, still staring at the door. “That’s just great. He’s going to go sulk and drink and leave me to figure out how to pay our bills.” 

I bend down to pull my slacks back on as he refills his glass with tequila. “Isn’t there anyone else you can ask for a loan from?” 

“We’re at war with the Plains and things are never friendly with Georgia. We’re on the brink with Texas. We’d be at war with California too if either of us could afford to send troops that far. The Canadians don’t want anything to do with us and we don’t have the European contacts that Georgia has.” Bass sighs. “Short answer? No. God, why does he get to do this? And he pretends like I just sit around twiddling my thumbs all day.” 

I strip off my stained shirt so I’m just in the camisole underneath and slacks. “Let me help.” 

“With what? Miles is never going to stop being an asshole.” 

“You know he doesn’t mean to be,” I sigh, stealing a sip off his glass. “He’s just hurt. He’s not as accepting of himself as you are. No, I meant with the money. Let me look at your books.” 

Bass watches me with pursed lips for a moment before reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “We’ve really let you in, haven’t we?” He sounds almost regretful and I have to ignore the pang of worry that this little bubble we live in could be burst at any moment. Bass pulls away after a long moment, walking across the room to his desk and pulling the keys out of his pocket. “All right, Rach, we’ll see what you think you can fix. I don’t know what looking through our books is going to tell you though. We have to _do_ something. Contrary to what certain people might think, you can’t actually run a country on whiskey and rousing speeches.” 

“Well you also can’t just keep raising taxes when your people don’t have anything to _give_. You’re going to have to cut somewhere.” 

He narrows his eyes at me, setting his glass down to unlock the desk. “If you say cut funds to the militia, you’re out of your mind.” 

“You two and your toy soldiers.” He starts to protest but I roll my eyes, marching over to the desk as he pulls a ledger out of the drawer. “No, Bass. I’m sure you’ve got thousands wasted on officers’ perks and new uniforms and whatever else it is men waste money on.” 

Bass smirks, waving a hand at his chair. “Fine, fine, Dr. Matheson. Be my guest. Let’s see what you can do.” 

I can’t help smiling a little at his use of my real title (I should probably be more worried that Sebastian Monroe knows how to stroke my ego) as I sink into his leather chair, running my hands over the arms. “So _this_ is what it feels like to be king of the world.” 

He grumbles, pulling a chair over to perch next to me. “Cheeky.”

We’re still pouring over the ledger, heads bent together, when Captain Lennox knocks to ask if we’d like some dinner. We’ve been at it for hours, and I’ve started to catch a bit of Bass’ perpetual Republic-induced headache. Still when I sink onto the couch with a glass of wine, my feet slung over Bass’ legs and a tray of bread and meats on the table beside us, it feels good to have put in a full day’s work again. It makes me miss the lab, miss being useful. Bass strokes my ankle and I watch him as he scribbles his signature over and over on a stack of paperwork, my wine glass resting against my bottom lip.


	7. Chamberstick Candle Holder

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: July 24, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Chamberstick Candle Holder _  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: brass with handle, dotted with wax  
Location: 2B[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: brass dull and scratched

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
N/A

**Fall 2019: Miles**

I dip my pinky into the wax and let it drip down and encase my finger just to feel something other than crippling turmoil. Bass’ office is lit only by this single candle I’ve brought from my room. A few minutes ago, when I walked in front of its flame to pilfer a second bottle from Bass’ stash - a _full_ one this time - I cast a hideous, misshapen shadow on the wall. Now I’m fixated on that monster that flickered in and out of existence. I’m literally afraid of my own fucking shadow. It almost makes me laugh. 

This is all because I got emotional and broke my own rule: never get close to one of your own men. (It’s also because of her - _always_ because of her.) 

“The measure of a good leader is his ability to put aside his desires for the greater good.” That’s what Pop always said when he wasn’t off drinking, leaving his two boys home alone. And now, like Pop, _my_ boy, Alec, is lying alone in the hospital, a bullet in his chest, while I’m sitting here in the dark drinking. If I hadn’t gotten close to Alec, he’d just be another soldier. But now? I’m having one hell of a time putting aside my concern for him. 

For Pop there were no limits to what you should deny yourself (except booze, I suppose). Personal sentiments were definitely out. If I was sad back then, it was: “Buck up, son, and don’t show weakness. The strong prey on the weak.” Even indulging in being sick was a liability: “You can’t miss school just because you’re a bit under the weather.” Oh sure, there was the time I caught a stomach bug in middle school and actually shat myself in the boys’ bathroom. I had to throw my underwear in the trash and ditch sixth period. I never even told _Bass_ about that. But everything Pop did was in the service of making me a respectable man. I swear, I’m not as bitter as I sound. 

The truth is, if Alec dies, he’ll die a soldier the way he wanted. I _owe_ him the dignity of being treated as one of my men - no more, no less. It’s the greatest care I could offer him. 

I swig whiskey straight from the bottle, the acid corroding my throat as it slides down. I slump forward on the couch, my eyes skipping briefly to her room. She’s actually why I came in here tonight in the first place. I unlocked her doors in a fit of remorse and then chickened out on apologizing. But for whatever reason I haven’t bothered to relock them. Maybe I’m hoping she’ll know how sorry I am by osmosis or some crap. 

Admittedly, I’m not surprised when I hear the doors unlatch, and she drifts in, pale and ghostly in a white cotton robe over those satin pajamas Bass got her. My eyes are a little watery from the booze, and even in this low light, I’m afraid she’ll think I’m crying. I blink hard. 

I’ve been avoiding spending time alone with her since the flu outbreak, but I have accompanied Bass to a few “interrogations” or whatever we’re calling them these days. More like drinking and chatting. I feel awful about those first few months when I locked her downstairs and didn’t visit her at all. Now here we are, alone in the dark, and my throat constricts because she’s so elegant. I have to resist the urge to reach out and wind my fingers in her hair. 

“Nightcap?” My voice sounds forbiddingly gruff. Anyone else might be scared to join me. 

But she slides her hand over the red upholstery of the armchair across from me and sits, tucking one leg under her, the other dangling. It takes me a minute to realize how long I’ve spent trailing my eyes up from her bare toes to her open thighs. And then I feel almost sick, because she must already think I’m a letch, and here I am confirming it. 

“What is this? Giving the caged bird a bigger cage?” She smiles thinly and reaches for a glass from the tray sitting on the table between us. I tip my bottle and give her a considerable pour. 

I refuse the bait to start an argument. “Well, I had a feeling you might be up.” (I _could_ just tell her that I came in here to apologize, before I turned coward and sat down to have a good cry over my current misfortunes.) 

“I usually am,” she agrees, lifting the glass to her lips. She doesn’t have lipstick on, of course, but I can just see the impression she leaves on the crystal edge, and it does something to my insides. I look down sharply as she finishes, “I don’t sleep much.” 

“Yeah. Well. I can relate.” I take a mighty sip off my bottle, nearly choke on it, and then lean back into the couch, trying to look more casual than I feel. 

“We both have a lot to lose sleep over.” Rachel watches me in the dark, her body softening in the chair but not relaxing - never relaxing. “What is it tonight in particular that’s keeping you up?” 

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Just run of the mill Republic shit.” 

She _hmm’s_ in acknowledgement, tipping her glass up and staring down at the amber liquid. “It varies for me. Tonight it’s Danny. Can’t get his little face out of my head.” 

“Yeah?” I grunt something like sympathy. I _do_ feel sympathy. I feel terrible. It’s my fault she’s missing her kids. Maybe it’s just to avoid that particular topic that I find myself going on. “One of my men is in the hospital tonight.” It’s hard for me to even put this to words. “He means something to me.” 

Rachel lifts an eyebrow over her glass. “Oh? I never thought of you as… _close_ to your men. You always just seem like the distant general.” 

“I try _not_ to get close to them. Armies are expendable, Rachel - they have to be. Doesn’t mean I don’t care. And besides, this one, Alec? He’s different. I’ve trained him up from a private to a commissioned officer. He’s an excellent soldier, a good man. I’m not ready to lose him.” I almost get choked up and have to bury myself back in my bottle, cracking my teeth against the glass. 

“He’s a friend,” Rachel says decisively.

“More like a s… a protégé.” The word feels stilted and weird.

Her lips twist into the faintest smirk. “More like a _son_. Why, Miles, I never knew you wanted kids,” she murmurs dryly before tapping a finger against her glass. 

I wage a ferocious inner battle to keep my memory from careening to the moment I heard she was pregnant in Iraq. Overcome by jealous rage at Ben and at life, shot through with shattering bitterness at myself for missing out on her, I almost broke my hand on a wall. Bass had to hold down my arms so I wouldn’t go a second round against cement with my bloody fist. _Fuck_. I cannot do this in front of her. 

She softens her tone, maybe because she’s noticed the gymnastics of my face for the past minute. “How did he get hurt?” 

I actually have to remind myself we’re talking about Alec. 

“I put him in danger, that’s how. Sent him on a mission that I knew took more experience than he had. Wanted to give him the chance to prove himself.” I run my fingers through my hair and squeeze hard at the roots. 

“Did he ask for that chance? Or did you presume?” Huh, that’s Rachel: blunt as ever. She’s smart, so she thinks she knows everything. 

“Doesn’t matter. I know what he needs.” 

She laughs under her breath, candlelight glinting off her hair. “Oh Miles.” 

Growing weary as always when I try to discuss military matters with civilians, I raise my eyebrows at her. _What?_

“We always think we know what’s best for our kids. I don’t know, maybe sometimes we do. But they understand a lot more about the world than we give them credit for. What has your _Alec_ said about all this? Have you talked to him?” 

And that cuts somewhere. My father doggedly believed he knew what was best for me and Ben. But in the end he didn’t have a damn clue. 

“Alec’s lying with a bullet in his chest. Ain’t doing much talking. But I know what he’ll say when he recovers. He’ll say he was proud to serve the Republic, and when can he get back out in the field? I know Alec.” 

She looks like she desperately wants to roll her eyes. “So tell him no. Put him somewhere safer when he’s well again, behind the front lines. If you can’t protect the people you care about, what’s the point of being general?” 

“Jesus, Rachel. You think that’s how this works? It’s the complete opposite! As general, you put yourself _last_ every time. It’s the only way. The militia is about sacrifice for the greater good.” I smack the bottle onto the table in emphasis. 

“And what about the people you really do love? What about Bass? Would you sacrifice him for the _greater good?_ ” 

“Bass is the president of the Republic. He’s more valuable than anyone. But he’s also a soldier. And yes, he would willingly give his life on the battlefield for his men.” 

“I didn’t ask if Bass would sacrifice himself, though even that’s debatable. I asked if _you_ would sacrifice _him._ ” 

I exhale through my nose. “You know, you’re a real pain in the ass.” 

Rachel smirks like she’s won something. I suppose making me uncomfortable _is_ a small win for her. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in weeks. Come on, Miles, we both know you could never sacrifice him. He’s your _world._ Why do you have to be so hypocritical? You wouldn’t put Bass in harm’s way, yet you simultaneously refuse to protect this boy who is obviously very dear to you.”

Searing anger is spreading through my veins, but I try to keep my face calm. I’ve lost my temper with her before, and I’m trying to make up for that, not compound it. “Well, if you’re right, then that’s a disservice to the Republic. It should always come first. It’s more important than both of us - Bass and me.” 

“It’s not. You think it is, but it’s not. The people we love, that’s what’s important.” 

I force myself to take a moment to consider her words, because I really am livid. My whole life I’ve had a problem with impulse control, and that’s only gotten worse since becoming general. The ‘people we love’, huh? Rachel and I really are coming from opposite sides of the map on this one. It makes me wonder if we lived through the same Blackout. 

I finally answer, “If everyone lived by your motto, we’d still be in chaos. It wouldn’t be _safe_ for the people you love - people running around shooting each other over a can of beans. People are stupid and selfish. _I_ am stupid and selfish. We need something to protect against our basest nature, Rachel, and _that_ is what the Republic is about: order, rules, safeguards against my cruelty, Bass’ cruelty, everyone’s fucking cruelty!” 

My voice blares in the stillness, and she flinches, probably because she’s so recently been on the receiving end of my cruelty. Fuck, I can argue with her over human nature and governments, or I can sack up and do what I came here to do tonight: apologize. 

I steady my voice, “But… it didn’t work when it came to you - putting the Republic first, I mean. And I’m really sorry for that. I was vicious to you, and it did absolutely no good for anyone.” 

Rachel sits there in the shadows for a long moment, and it’s oppressively quiet. Though she hasn’t cried in front of me in many years, her voice sounds thick and choked up when she finally speaks. “Yeah, you were. I didn’t think you realized that.” 

Christ, it’s hard to hear the damage I’ve done to the woman I’ve never stopped loving. It’s clear to me that my thin apology is not enough. She knows and I know that what I did was personal too. 

“When you showed up instead of Ben,” I swear softly, “it was the worst thing that could have happened. You came to play on my confusion over you, and you were right, you know. You confuse the hell out of me.” 

And here it comes, the wrenching part - the thing that aches so raw, I can barely get out the words without choking on them. I have to avoid looking at her, but I feel her pale eyes trained on me. “When the Blackout happened, all I could think about was finding you and Ben. I looked for you for years - _years_ \- dragging Bass all over the map. You didn’t leave me one single crumb to find you by. I mean, did you guys even think about me _once_?” I’m a hair away from losing it, my bottom lip actually trembling, so I lick my lips and concentrate on the flame in front of me. 

I hear her breath catch in her throat, and the clink as she sets down her glass. “Of course we did, Miles.” Standing, she walks over to the couch and settles beside me, resting a cool hand on my bare arm. It’s as close as we’ve been since Bass was sick, and it feels so familiar - so _us_ \- that I raise my eyes to hers. “Of _course_ we did. Those first couple of years after the Blackout, I was so overwhelmed. Danny was sick all the time and everywhere we went, there was all my guilt in living color. 

“But on top of all that, I’d still wake up in the middle of the night and wonder where you were. Whether or not you were safe. We heard all sorts of things about the government, you know, about the military and who was at fault. I wondered for years if you were dead and then all of a sudden: the Monroe Militia. You showed up like a ghost out of the woodwork, but you turned out to be so blood-soaked, I even made Ben use my maiden name for the kids for a while so no one would suspect we were a relation.” She shakes her head as if to clear it, and her eyes glisten in the candlelight. “You scared us. You scared _me_.” 

I stare at her creamy fingers against the dark hair of my forearm. “You were ‘ashamed to call me family’. Yeah, you said that already.” I sigh shakily. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand what Bass and I are doing here. I’m not asking you to see my side or agree with me. But I owe it to you to admit my mistake. I owe you an apology. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and you don’t have to give it to me. Just know that… I regret a lot of things. But this thing I did to you? I regret it the most.” 

Rachel draws her fingers through my arm hair mindlessly, lips pressed together in a tight line like she’s holding back tears (or a bitter argument). In any case, she’s giving me the benefit of the doubt by not objecting, so I blunder on in honesty:

“And just to prove I’m the most selfish son-of-a-bitch you’ll ever meet, I’m actually glad you’re in Philly now. I missed you, Rach. So much. I’m really fucking sorry I put you in that cage underground. I was ashamed and maybe even a little afraid to see you again after… well you tried to kill me. I mean, you’re really fucking scary when you want to be.” 

“I’m sorry about that. I know I said I didn’t regret it but it’s not really true,” she murmurs without looking up, fixating for a moment on the easiest thing to deal with. “It was justified. But I would have hated myself.” 

She takes a shallow breath, finally lifting her eyes to mine. “Granted, that wouldn’t be much of a change for me. I might not have noticed if I hated myself a little more than I already do. You probably know what that feels like.” Rachel hesitates and I think for a moment she’s going to lean into me, kiss me, anything, but she stays planted right where she is with just her hand on my arm. “I wish you didn’t though,” she whispers. “I wish neither of us had anything to feel guilty about.” 

God, it aches to know she thinks about herself like that - the guilt and the loathing. I wish I could take it on for both of us, since it already occupies so much of my brain space. 

Some of the tension drains from the silence in the office. Then out of the blue, she whispers, “I missed you too,” squeezing my arm. 

“You… you miss me? After everything I’ve done to you?” I want to touch her too, but I’m afraid I’ll spook her. She’s perched so close to me on the couch that I can smell the faint strawberry-pine that clings to her. It almost makes my mouth water. 

“I never stopped thinking about you.” 

“Yeah. Me too,” I breathe, dropping my cheek to her hair and letting myself really inhale her. I’m getting to that phase in the night’s drinking where I’m losing my will to stop myself from taking what I want. And I just want to feel her again - the cornsilk waves between my fingertips, the curve of her dainty chin in my oversized hand. She hesitates before leaning into me, sighing softly against my cheek. 

“Do you think you could forgive me?” I press even though I shouldn’t. It’s not fair. It’s just what I want. 

“I think maybe I could,” Rachel says after a beat, stroking her thumb over my arm. 

I lay my hand on top of hers, and the bones are so delicate, I worry I’ll break them. I sink a little deeper into her and resist the urge to kiss her hair. My chest rises and falls too rapidly, as she squeezes my arm tighter and settles closer on the couch. 

I’m not sure if it’s an invitation, so I turn her chin up to look at me. She can probably see the desire in my eyes, feel it like heat off my body, because she lays a hand on my thudding chest and pushes me back. 

“Miles, I-” 

I instantly feel terrible. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to push you.” But damn, her tiny hand feels good on my chest. “You want me to walk you back to your room?” I add quickly. 

“No, it’s-” She squeezes her eyes shut, scooting away so there’s just a breath of air between us. “I need more time, Miles. Could we just sit up together for a bit?” 

“Course. Do you…?” I’m not exactly sure what she wants, so I sort of offer her my arm, and she settles against my side again. I hug her to me, a little awkward and unsure of myself. 

She rests her head on my shoulder, her hand falling to my thigh. We stare at the candle in silence, watching it burn down. When she falls asleep, I carry her back to her room and tuck in the covers under her chin. Hell, she’s asleep anyway, so I press my lips to her forehead, relishing the familiar taste of her skin - I’ve never forgotten it. Quietly, I withdraw back into the darkness of Bass’ office and click shut her doors. I don’t lock them.


	8. Purple Heart

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: August 3, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact: _ Purple Heart_  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: War medal – small brass heart inlaid with purple and bust of General George Washington, attached to purple ribbon.  
Location: 2D[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Brass slightly scratched and ribbon frayed at edges.

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
N/A

 

**Winter 2020: Bass**

I’ve burrowed my fingers into the leg holes of her panties, my tongue in her mouth, and there’s this impish part of me that keeps thinking, _I’m fucking your girl, Miles_. But I suppose, she’s _my_ girl too. It’s something I can’t get used to - him sharing her with me. It’s not like Emma, when the three of us did everything together _except_ fuck. And one day, finally being left out of even just that killed me, and I had to have her, too. Apparently, she’d felt the same. 

But now, of all the women he’s been with, he willingly chooses to share Rachel. It flabbergasts me, unnerves me, because I can’t understand where his head is in all this. Oh sure, he chose _me_ back then when he broke it off with her, but that was by default, because hurting Ben was tearing him up inside. So what? Now that he can have us both, he honestly can’t choose? Or he’s trying us both out to see which one to keep?

It’s when Rachel and I are alone together that I’m most uncertain. And yet, lately, we’ve been thick as thieves, because she’ll linger in bed with me in the mornings (when Miles is all sleep, fuck, or get up), she’s two steps from my office and a genius at paperwork (you should see her nimble fingers fly over a typewriter), and finally, Miles has been in a _mood_ lately over the paucity of decent bladesmiths (which...duh, what is this, samurai country?). Obviously, I’m used to his temper, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still sting when he takes shit out on you. So Rachel and I fall in together, while Miles is off stomping around, and we find pleasant ways to pass the time. And we work, of course. But Christ, my job is equal parts crushing boredom and monumental stress. 

I should really be digging into that stack of paperwork under Rachel’s ass right now. But hell, I’m president - if I want to fuck Rachel at high tea time on my desk, I will. Her legs are spread around me as I stand before her, not unlike Emma on that kitchen counter all those years ago. Rachel’s clad in a half-buttoned white blouse – breasts tumbling out – while my uniform is in a state of disarray, jacket partially wrenched open. I take particular delight in the fact that Jeremy’s report - perched atop the mess of papers - will end up soaked through with her juices, because Jeremy’s report is fucking annoying. Why is he such shit at tactics? Why are we his friend again? Rachel’s knuckles grind suddenly against the wool of my crotch, and I like it, mostly because it’s something Miles would do.

Beneath the satin panties, I beckon my fingers against wet, puffy skin, and Rachel makes a purring sound not unlike my sisters’ two marmalade-orange kittens, Muff and Puss (which always sounded like vag euphemisms to me and Miles. Anytime the girls called for them, we’d burst out laughing. Whatever happened to those mangy cats? I think Mom got allergic, and the ‘cooter twins’ got the boot.) Anyway, purring is _not_ something Miles would do. But I find I like it, too. 

When she drags open my belt, I figure it’s time to set up my lines of defense, as Miles would say. I fumble around in my desk for a condom for long enough that she gets impatient and tangles her fingers in the drawer next to mind to aid in the search. We wage a little finger skirmish and in the process, she dislodges my trinkets, sending something sailing onto the floor with a metallic clatter. My eyes shift after the jetsam: his purple heart. _Fuck!_

I scramble to retrieve it, heart thudding as I stow it safely in my pocket. I rise reluctantly, swallowed by unaccountable panic, to find my erection has waned.

“Bass,” comes her befuddled voice. “What _was_ that – a purple heart?” She pulls me back over by the lapel, features twisted into something halfway between annoyed at the interruption and a sort of sympathy I can’t really stomach right now. “Are you okay?”

I don’t know why I’m so clammy and breathless, but inexplicably I don’t want her here anymore. I crave privacy. I’m suffocating - have to get to a window, goddammit - but my feet are fucking cement.

“Is it yours?” she asks and that only makes my pulse skip and my blood churn. 

An enormous drop of sweat rolls down my temple and dislodges from my chin. As if I’d be all sensitive about my own fucking medal. And what does _she_ know about purple hearts anyway? Miles and I always say you get them for being stupid enough to get wounded. Only _army_ pussies actually _want_ to get out of the action in the middle of a tour. For Marines, leaving your unit for any reason feels dishonorable. Even if your guts are inside-out or your brains are swimming in your ears, you never want to be that guy who abandons your buddies.

Far out of proportion to the innocence of her question, I snap, “So we’re talking now instead of screwing?” It’s unnecessary, considering I’m no longer in the mood. This is all just a reminder that when she shuffles through my things, even invited as she was, she’s likely to displace something I care about. It’s not safe, this thing we’re doing. She’s not Miles; she doesn’t know me.

“I thought you like when we talk?” she inquires. Her lip curls in that wry way it does when she knows she’s got something on you. She lays her hand on my arm and I peer at her slender, breakable fingers. What is she playing at? 

I try to keep it light to obscure my mounting agitation, but my mouth feels pinched. “Sure, talking with you has its benefits. When you hang out with Miles all the time, your brain atrophies. I think I’ve regained 50% of my vocabulary since you came to town.” I casually try to shake off her grasp.

Rachel gives me this little sideways look and pushes me gently back by the chest – not unfriendly exactly, but forcefully enough that my muscles knot. Her fingers do linger briefly on my bare chest like she regrets the mood change. I start to re-button my jacket and notice she’s doing the same with her blouse - the refastening of armor. She walks over to the red armchairs adjacent to her room and plops on one, tucking her bare legs almost demurely beneath her. The sight rekindles a spark of fondness for her. I’m overreacting, aren’t I? 

“Whiskey?” I ask and pour her a tumbler with mildly shaking hands without bothering to see if she’s nodded. I hand her the crystal glass and settle on the couch across from her, slouching (a bit like Miles) to impersonate ease. Miles only straightens when he’s intimidating someone, and Rachel already looks a bit unsettled. 

“I didn’t mean to hit a nerve, Bass,” she presses, hands knit together around her glass like a shield. Women. Miles would never insist on pursuing a topic like this. I can’t tell if I like it or not that someone is actually considering my feelings for once. 

She must feel a bit like Miles and I are landmines waiting to blow. I mean, we are. We’re just far too familiar with each other to walk on eggshells. We stomp right on the other’s triggers and blow through - fighting, making up, and igniting the next one. So you know, I should cut her a break for accidentally unearthing one of my mines. She’s new to us...in a way.

“You didn’t,” I assure. 

She arches an eyebrow, seeming to size me up with bored, blue eyes. Fuck, how does she do that? Miles always says I’m a bad liar, but he says that to everyone. He’s just really astute at reading lies (especially mine)...sucks at reading other emotions though. 

I shouldn’t elaborate - should just dismiss her to her room - but instead, unbidden, I go on. So maybe I _do_ crave her interest. “It’s his: Miles’,” I add unnecessarily, as if we discuss anyone else. “His second purple heart of three.” I press the cool glass to my lips and let the whiskey singe my tongue. 

She winces then, and I get it. I hate to think about him getting hurt too. Unlike her, I’ve actually had to _see_ it - him holding in his guts at Trenton, for instance, when I really thought I’d lose him. That kind of wound smells of excrement. I can almost taste that smoky, fecal air now, and my stomach turns. I shakily replace my drink on the on the table, crystal clinking against the glass hurricane lamp. Rachel’s lucky that for her, Miles’ wounds are only abstractions. 

“It was right after we finished sniper scout training,” I continue, now more to distract myself from my own nausea. “Special mission. I can’t really tell you the details.” 

Hell, I don’t want to _think_ about the details. Sniping is shady work. One dipshit in our unit carried the fucking Nazi flag alongside a _pirate’s_ flag, and he was a goddamn Catholic! Hitler would have rounded him up with the Jews and the Gypsies (and homos, like me and Miles). So yeah, way to know your history, fucktard. That’s the kind of idiot you snipe with. Christ. 

“Really, Bass? Still loyal to the United States? Now isn’t that charming.” She gives a dismissive shake of her head and drains some more whiskey. 

“Shut up.” I cross my arms, and even I’m a little disappointed with my comeback. I grope for my glass again to distract us both...ineffectively.

“Or do you just fold the United States into your own little kingdom’s history these days?” she finishes with a glance down at my hand, her tone falsely casual. Then our eyes meet. 

Her half-smile fades, and she actually sounds earnest and apologetic when she says, “I’m sorry, Bass. You don’t have to tell me. But you have to admit, it’s a _little_ ridiculous to hang on to your military secrets for a country that no longer exists.” Her crystalline eyes continue to penetrate mine, and I have to blink first. “But this isn’t about that, is it? I know you both came back from that tour regretting your decision to become snipers; I could tell. It’s okay - we’ve all done things we’re ashamed of.” 

She says so with a decisive tone, as if to imply: _I won’t smoke out yours if you don’t smoke out mine._ But Rachel, your secrets are why you’re here. Or they _were_ , anyway.

I give up on our blue-eyed war and, swishing the amber liquid in my glass once, close my eyes against the memory of the day he earned that heart. It comes back in a sensory rush - the scalding, almost visible heat of the desert, the sand tornadoes, the sharp-sweet odor of explosives. My face must be putting on quite the show for Rachel. Jesus, the muscle strain and panic of having to drag Miles back toward me by his leg in full gear, his arms wrapped around a wounded Marine dog. Together they must have weighed over 300 pounds. You know what’s funny, though? The military dogs always outranked us. 

The dog had its paw ripped off and Miles? He had a giant piece of shrapnel lodged in his shoulder and neck and looked genuinely scared. He’d come this close to being decapitated. I gathered them both in my arms, and I’ll never forget the sound that dog was making - a throaty, high-pitched whine - and the way Miles said my name all small and quiet: _Bass_. I told him, _It’ll be okay, bud. I got you._

Glancing at her face again, I see that Rachel’s eyes have drifted off to stare at the pale baseboard, as she chews her lip in a way that borders on embarrassment. It’s then I realize that I’m blinking away tears. Shit. 

“He got hurt doing something stupidly heroic, I presume,” Rachel quietly states rather than asks, like she doesn’t expect an answer. 

“You presume correctly.” 

Except, even though I call Miles stupid all the time, I feel defensive of him when she says it that way. Miles’ heroic streak is one of the things I most admire about him, as much as it irks me. In fact, it may well be the thing that’s instigated every jam I’ve ever been in. Still, there’s nothing more _Miles_ than a steadfast belief that he can save the world from itself. 

“So, why do you have _his_ purple heart?” The woman harbors endless curiosity. Sometimes I forget she was a scientist...until I remember, that’s what she’s here for. Or was. 

Well, _that_ is none of her business. What a Marine carries might seem flinty and superstitious, but it has meaning for him alone. It’s just an object, but to me it’s everything. It means Miles survives. It means some part of him is always near me. It means he loves me. 

“It’s just a thing we do.” 

Rachel’s lips press into a thin smirk, like she _actually_ knows us, as she stares down down into her whiskey, unruly blonde waves scattering on her chest. With that jot of privacy, I slump back into memory.

_Miles’ dogtags are dangling on me, tickling my chest. He’s so consuming in bed, and fuck do I love to be consumed by him. He’s just rubbing off on me this morning, because we’re both too nervous to breach our respective holes. We’re about to deploy as snipers. It’s much lonelier than infantry service, more responsibility, and we don’t even know where we’re going except that it’s highly dangerous, and we’d better damn well prove that the best training in the world means something._

_“Uhhh, Bass,” Miles breathes into my ear. He’s completely drenched us in lube to make this good. We know it’s the last time we’re going to be able to do this for months, and there’s always the possibility that it’ll be the last time ever. His dick has slid off beside mine and is digging wetly along the dip of my pelvis, while mine is sort of nuzzled in his pubic hair. I don’t even know why this feels so good. It’s like we’re teenagers gearing up for our big games - mine baseball, his football._

_“Miles,” I whisper back, sounding needy even to myself, so to hide my embarrassment, I suck his lip. His dark eyelashes flutter, and I know he wants to come, but he’s waiting for me. You know, there’s all this pressure to perform a certain way, but I **love** that Miles comes quickly. He’s so focused on you that for those few minutes you’re the only thing that matters in his world. Besides, his release will usually trigger mine._

_“You can come,” I coax him. “I’m really close too.”_

_He sounds relieved when he chuckles into my lips (but his laugh rings slightly higher than usual from nerves). Then he buries his face in the pillow beside me and shoves hard into my hipbone. I feel a little sorry for his poor dick, but that’s what he likes. Sure enough, as he begins to squirt against me, I barrel to my edge and come, now more tangled in his hair down there than ever. We hold each other tight, and then I feel terribly sorry it’s over, because that’s it. We’ve got to board a plane in two hours._

_“Fuck,” I say running a hand over my face and through my wild hair._

_“I know,” he sighs. He rolls off to the side and soothes my chest with his sprawling fingers._

_Now, here’s the thing about Miles: he’s the world’s most sentimental fool. You never know when it’s going to strike, and when it does, it’s always a little surprising. But he’s **my** fool, and I love him for it._

_At first I think he’s abandoning me, because he angles out of bed and walks across my childhood bedroom to his pants, pooled in the corner where I dropped them. But then, he rummages through his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for and strides back over. His ass is perfectly round, his pink dick bouncing, flecked with seed. His lean muscles are lined with luxuriant, dark hair, and he’s just...well, he’s my favorite sight on earth. The bed sinks in, as he sits beside me, and I turn on my elbow to kiss his thigh._

_Miles runs his fingers through my curls and says, “I...um...want you to have this.”_

_He plops a purple heart in my hand like it’s a fucking engagement ring. My heart actually skips a beat. I sit up abruptly next to him, and he looks momentarily worried, like I might reject him. I close my free hand over his empty one that gave me the gift._

_“Is it yours?” I ask. It could be his father’s._

_He nods, brown eyes vulnerable. Jesus, Miles. You kill me sometimes._

_I slide open the drawer of my nightstand and pull out my own. I dangle it for a moment and then pass it over. His fingers curl around it like it’s what he’s always wanted. Leaning my head against his shoulder, I mutter, “So you think we’re gonna die.”_

_Miles shrugs. “That’s not what this is about.” He kisses the top of my head._

_“Okay, but you never say it.”_

_He whispers hoarsely, the slightest hint of Miles-sarcasm, “Sorry I’m such a disappointment.”_

_I exhale a laugh._

“You two are awfully cute.” Rachel’s words drag me back to reality.

“Cute?” I scoff, discerning a slight edge to her voice. 

She tosses back the rest of her drink. “I mean, I get it. You’re his Ben.” 

She stands abruptly and looks to leave but stops mid-step when my voice rings out in the cavernous office:“The hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

Why do I suddenly feel like I’m arguing with Cynthia in her silly, little adolescent code? Rachel’s hardly my younger sister. This is the woman I was about to bang not five minutes ago. In fact, she’s still standing there clad only in her underwear and blouse, her nipples visible rosy dots beneath the white cotton. 

Rachel just pauses and holds my stare with oceany eyes, our little battle of wills resumed. Despite her disadvantage of being near-naked, I still feel she wins. I’m the wife, she’s the affair - that’s what she means right? She’ll always be the shiny one, me his fallback. 

I finger the little heart in my pocket and want to make her hurt, because she doesn’t deserve him. I held his hand when his mother died. I dragged him out of enemy fire when he was wounded. Hell, I even comforted him when she broke his heart (okay he broke his own heart, but still). I _earned_ him. She was never there when things went to hell for Miles.

The corners of her pink mouth migrate up. Is she laughing at me? 

“Bass. It’s not a competition.” 

I hate when she accurately reads me. It reminds me of how plainly my face reflects my emotions - a liability in love and war. “Like hell.” 

Her hands bunch at her hips, and her eyes narrow as she asserts, “It’s not one either of us is going to win.” 

There’s a part of me that wants to remind her that she’s the prisoner. That in a way, she has _already_ lost. But maybe I’m not so convinced of that anymore. Maybe _I’m_ the prisoner - to my love of Miles now bled over onto her. 

Then she shocks me with this concession: “He loved you first.” 

I would suspect she’s trying to placate me, but she appears genuinely sad about it. She looks suddenly weary, and I guess I am too. Yes, it’s exhausting, this game we play. I walk over to her and drape a hand on her lean waist, and her fists fall to her sides. 

“You’re right, Rachel. We shouldn’t bicker over him. Such pettiness doesn’t become people of our stature.” I flash her my best ironic smile. 

But she can’t let something that incendiary go. With an incredulous tilt of her chin, she echoes, “Our _stature_?” 

I force a laugh and gesture at the passersby milling around in the street below - officers’ wives in saturated reds and greens and some militia, their uniform buttons glinting in the sun. “We have to set a good example for our subjects.” After all, she is _ours_ \- Miles’ and mine - and she helps preserve the balance of domestic bliss. If Miles and I were to tip for any reason, all the Republic’s citizens would topple out the bowl. 

“Well, luckily for me - I’m just one of _them_ ,” she mimics my motion toward the street with added sharpness, “because I’m fairly certain I’ve proven myself a horrendous role model.”

Her full meaning isn’t lost on me, but this tete-a-tete is through.

I twist my lips into another smile and usher her toward her room with a little pat on her silken butt. She glares slightly as she disappears into her lair, and I click closed her doors. Then I lean back on them and run my palm over my face. I can’t deny why Miles and I are with her - she’s beautiful and smart and _Rachel_ \- but fuck is she dangerous.


	9. Recruitment Poster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MONDO thank you to the monumentally talented Maywitch who created this gorgeous recruitment poster! Look how hot Bass is, you guys!!! We try to pay back Maywitch in porn, but I'm just not convinced it's a fair trade off.
> 
> Trigger warning: In the first few paragraphs, Miles ponders the possibility that he might be a rapist based on the canon flashbacks of 1.17, and he also reflects back on his own torture in Afghanistan. Please read with caution.

****

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

 

Date: June 18, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact: _ Recruitment Poster_  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: image of President Sebastian Monroe and Republic Flag, white border, white and blue lettering reads: President Monroe says: Enlist Now!  
Location: 2D[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: scratched surface

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
N/A

**Summer 2021: Miles**

 

It’s early, still dark out, so what 5:00? 5:30? I hate waking up early, though the Marines forced me to learn that, like doing a hundred push-ups and shooting some poor sap in the head. I know why I’m awake: a dream that felt real enough to make my armpits sweat and produce a raging hard on. It’s real arousal, not just morning wood – so I can’t hide behind that. I was dreaming about me and Rachel in my tent again when she was tied to my chair, only this time when I slid my hands on her thighs, I had her pants off and trailed my fingers up her until I reached her soaked panties, pressed my thumb in between her parted folds and pushed the cotton inside her. Now I have bile in my throat, and no matter how much I’m trying to shut down my brain it keeps repeating the same terrifying word, the worst word in the world – the one that army nurse said to me when she was investigating the most private part of me with a hot, little light, and I felt completely subhuman. _Were you raped Sgt. Matheson?_ I guess I looked like I’d been through a meat grinder, but no. That’s not what they did to me. Those slime-sucking fucks stuck their guns in me for a laugh but it wasn’t _that_.

I swear I never touched Rachel beyond her thighs. I have to keep saying it to myself over and over to make sure I keep memories separate from dreams. I did not do that word to Rachel. That word did not happen to me. But maybe if I hadn’t spent too long in a world where I make the rules, I’d bother to ask myself: Is there really a substantial difference between me and my Taliban captors? But I won’t ask. Again – my world, my rules. Further, she’s lying next to me in bed and that _has_ to mean something. Doesn’t it?

She is tucked into Bass’s arms, her face obscured by his shapely biceps, and even just the back of her is so pretty. Blonde hair cascading down the creamy arch of back. Her ass this perfect, gentle round. Oh Jesus, Rachel, I’ve got to get you out of here, away from us - it’s not right. Bass isn’t safe; I’m not safe. The Republic is unstable. We could go to war with Texas, and if we do, we’ll be sunk, and you have to be far, far away. You should be with your children...and with Ben.

My hand is trembling when I press it to the small of her back, and I wish my dick would go down. What the hell is my problem? I’m so horny around these two, and that’s why I can’t let her go when I should have never brought her here in the first place. I love her so desperately, so stupidly, and want her so much more than anything I’ve ever wanted in the world that fate may literally have to pry her out of my fingers to make me let go.

I hold the silken waves away from her neck to kiss that strawberry-sweetness off her, intending to immediately pull back and get up, but I linger. Of course I fucking linger, you son of a bitch, Matheson. I whisper into her neck:

“Sorry, Rach. So sorry I’ve kept you here.” Does she stiffen or do I imagine it?

Either way, I’m out of here. I’m going to go take a bath in my room and jerk off, so I can get a goddamn grip. And then I’ll do my job, because fucked up as I am, people are counting on me. I pull on enough of my clothes - wool pants and white shirt - so I don’t look like I’m doing the walk of shame through Bass’ office and across the hall, but of course I do anyway. Stumbling blindly in the dark, it’s only in his office I pick up and light a candle. I don’t even look at whoever the fuck the guard is, plopped at his desk, and grunt something in passing at him that probably just sounds angry. Of course I _do_ need water for my bath, and I’m a fucking baby who won’t get it myself, so halfway around the Liberty Bell, I turn back to see that it’s Lt. Pembroke, bored, haughty face yellowed from his lamp.

“Um...Pembroke,” I mumble his name, because I have this weird quirk where even if I’m pretty sure I know someone’s name, I’m still nervous I’m wrong. “Can you fetch me hot water for a bath?” Though I tucked in my hard on and have my free arm draped casually (yeah, fucking right) over its protrusion, I can’t help but redden when I speak.

“Right away, sir!” he nods obediently, but I think I see him sneer. He’s Bass’ bootlicker; I hate the son of a bitch. Even so, it’s fucking bizarre telling everyone in the world what to do. Being commanding general is a little like being a boy king: you make constant decisions about who lives and dies, while someone else tells you what a nice turd you’ve made that day and then wipes your ass for you, all the while hating you for it.

I’m in a faceplant on my bed, the ambient light of puny sun rising outside, when the maid knocks, and I yell at her grumpily, “Yeah, come in. Put it in the tub.”

I listen to her carrying in the buckets for an unreasonably long time and get so impatient, I pull off my shirt and start working at my fly before I realize she (what the hell is her name again?) is still there, frozen mid pour and staring at me wide eyed. She’s afraid of me. How many people are afraid of me? Oh shit, my insistent boner. She probably thinks I’m going to take advantage of her.

“Just leave it!” I bark then, and she jumps, thudding down her bucket with a mighty splash and scurrying toward the door. Christ, no wonder people like Bass better than me. He’s actually civil to them.

“Hey wait...what is it - Molly?” Pulled that out of my ass. Thank God she nods, paused in the doorway. “Thank you for the water,” I say going for polite but sounding curt.

She nods once and runs for it with a slam and rattle. My pants crumple to the floor and with one hand already on my dick, I use the other to dump in the remaining water. Steam rises and the water pleasantly scalds my flesh as I lower in inch by inch, turning from pale to pink. I try not to even look at myself naked these days I’m so covered in hideous, puckered scars and my body hair is thickening with age. I’m skinny and saggy where I used to be trim. I only feel less ugly when Rachel or Bass is looking at me.

I reach for the soap that she - _Molly_ \- has left me and use it to lather up my junk. Sinking down a little further into the pleasant heat, I groan and in a beat realize that I’ve actually saidher name aloud: _Rachel_. I have sex with her all the time, and I still have it this bad? Jesus. But I’ve got to let her go. _How_ to let her go? How to get her out of here without Bass going berserk?

It’s a little difficult to plot a prison break from your own home while trying to jerk off, so I decide to let myself take the moment I need for relief. Of course I do. I’m a fucking hedonist. I do what I want when I want, and only later do I regret it.

So Rachel, yeah, I’ll focus on something good about her. The way her skin glowed alabaster against the tan of Bass’ arms just now. Uhh, and her lips, buried in some hidden crease of his body, but I know how delicate and pink they are when they stretch to suck me. I know she doesn’t mean it, but it always feels a little like teasing, since she sucks so lightly compared to Bass, and her fingers are so slender when they wrap around the base of my cock. Also I think she doesn’t want to hurt me - can’t believe how hard I want it. My limits are perhaps a little terrifying. I’m grateful they don’t scare Bass, though, because, even though it occasionally exasperates him, I just need someone to let me hate myself.

I may be picturing Rachel sweetly lapping at my cockhead, but I’m brutalizing myself with my fist, the way I beg Bass to do it. My veins strain against my knuckles and I take a vicious swipe at my tightened balls. Oh Christ, Rachel, I want to come in your prim, lovely mouth, jerking, squirting against your tongue. Ohhh, yeah. Yeah, it’s good. I pull on myself a little longer until I’m completely spent and then sink all the way down, burying my head in the water. Then it’s time to dress, slick back my hair, and become the general.

I’m out and about so early this morning that the scattered troops look surprised to see me. They’re making coffee and cooking bacon next to canvas wedge tents, as we’ve flooded over from the barracks. We need to build more permanent structures before it gets cold again. I’ll have to remember to ask Jim if that’s on the list. And there he is – my highest ranking officer, waddling toward me, looking as cross as I am.

“Mornin’, Jim,” I greet with more enthusiasm than I would have guessed myself capable of. It’s just that it’s Jim. He’s one of the only people I care to see on a morning like this when I’m sick at myself, and it’s already humid at 6:30 am. The sun looks poised to cook us where we stand.

Jim nods and glowers at some of the troops playing cards, probably with whiskey in their tin cups instead of coffee. It’s early for that. Bad sign.

My aide, Lt. Felix Hess, is on me saluting and I return. I never know where he comes from, but he’s brilliant at his job. He hovers over me like a sunbeam, ready to attend to my every need, though I’ve got to be the worst assignment he’s ever had.

“Felix,” I welcome, as some of my boys chase a chicken off to my right. The hell? Discipline sure is lax this morning. Where’d they even get that chicken? Steal it from the coop by the mess hall? “Jim…” I start.

“On it.” God, I treasure Jim. The face he gives the riffraff makes them all instantly look to shit a brick. They practically fall on each other throwing salutes as he approaches.

“Would you like a coffee, sir?” Felix inquires next to me, also smirking at their stupid blundering.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Any breakfast?”

“Nah,” I start to say when Jim’s back on us. The recalcitrant men behind him are doing burpees.

Jim’s instantly badgering Felix, “Lieutenant, how many times do I have to tell you not to ask the general if he wants breakfast? Just bring it. He never eats. He subsists solely on coffee and whiskey, and it’s your job to keep him alive. If he starves, I’ll have you shot.”

Felix is so affable he merely replies, “Right, sir. Eggs and toast and lots of coffee. I’ll be back.”

Jim and I grin at him as he lopes off.

“You want to inspect the new recruits, Miles? They’re terrible pussies, but I think we can whip ‘em into shape.”

“Yeah. Form ‘em up.”

Fifteen minutes later I’m walking up and down their lines, when I notice something over my shoulder – Bass coming out with a soldier I don’t recognize at first. A _lady_ soldier. Not many of those yet. It’s Rachel in a cap and full uniform. Oh Jesus, Bass. Seems dangerous parading her around like that in front of the troops. True, she could be anyone in that get up - it’s almost impossible to distinguish her from the crowd of militia, since we’ve been recruiting by the boatload lately - but still. She’s with the _president_. I hope he’s made up a decent story to explain all this away. People will probably just think he’s fucking her. And well, he is.

“Sir,” Felix is flagging my attention. “I have your eggs and coffee.” He wisely gave up on the toast, since he knows damn well I won’t eat it. The coffee mug finds it’s way into my cracked hand, and I press it to my lips, relishing the burnt hot liquid.

I must look more irritated than excited to see my breakfast, so Felix offers, “I’ll hold the plate, sir. Here’s your fork.”

I’m _such_ a baby. I take a forkful of eggs and wonder what Rachel must think of me, out here in front of these rows of green, trembling soldiers, shoveling breakfast into my mouth from Felix’s hand. Rachel looks fucking amazing in Republic blues with that cute ponytail tucked under her cap. And Bass always looks pulse-racingly handsome in his uniform, the morning light reflecting golden in his curls.

I barrel down four more bites of egg and wave Felix away but continue to sip my coffee. Jim’s sauntering over to me again, hands on his hips, and it takes me a beat to realize my eyes have trailed down to his sizable bulge. Um… I shift my gaze quickly away and end up briefly locked in Bass’ suddenly stormy blues. What’s got his knickers bunched?

Jim interrupts this train of thought, “Miles, you should say something to these grunts - about to piss their pants, don’t know what they’re here for, or what they’re made of. Give ‘em something to look forward to.”

“Aw fuck, I hate giving speeches, Jim,” I whine.

“Well, that’s too bad. You’re good at it. Might even inspire me on this shit morning.”

I lift an eyebrow. I’m honestly taken aback. Jim never gives a compliment he doesn’t mean, and yet I’m well aware I’m a horrible communicator. Furthermore, I’m nervous because Bass and Rachel are watching with matching sky-blue stares.

But suddenly Jim isn’t offering me a choice.

“Look alive boys, your commanding general is about to have words with you.”

The boys closest to me visibly shake. What the hell have they heard about me? Christ, I’m not _that_ bad.

I shift and stand up to my full height. “Morning, recruits. Welcome to your capital. I’m General Miles Matheson.” I never have any idea what I’m going to say until at some point, I just lock in and a speech materializes. I suppose it’s simply become part of what I am. I used to want to shit my pants at public speaking. In fact, there was a time when Bass did nearly all the talking for me. But…everyone grows up.

“From this morning on, you are no longer _you_. You’re a fragment of, an atom composing, the Monroe Militia. Look to your left and right. Well, go ahead,” I bark impatiently, and there’s a responsive shuffling as they obey. “These are your comrades – your best friends, your brothers, your sisters. Starting now, you love them more than you love yourself. Because this isn’t about you. When you enlisted, you gave up your claim to put yourself first. We _never_ leave a comrade behind. And when you obey the orders of those above you, it’s not the individual you’re respecting, it’s the militia itself. We have a higher purpose together.

Our purpose is to bring order and security to the Republic so that our citizens can live out their lives free of fear. They don’t always know what’s best for them - don’t always understand the danger lurking beyond their towns - but we do. It’s our job to make it so that they don’t _have_ to understand; they just get to _enjoy_ safety. I take our responsibility very seriously and I expect you to do the same.

“You’re embarking on training, and training is hard - more physically and mentally challenging than anything you’ve done before. It’s going to break you down and build you back up to be something better – something honorable and brave. A respectable soldier. By the end of it, you’ll be among the best trained troops on this continent, and you’ll always be able to rely on one another. And you can always rely on me. That’s a promise. For the Republic, boys!”

I probably should stop calling them boys now that we’re enlisting women, but it’s just habit.

“For the Republic!” They yell, and they actually look calm now, proud of their choice to be here. Something warm spreads in my chest. I love them already. I feel like they’re my goddamn kids.

I walk away, satisfied enough with myself, and nearly bump into Bass and Rachel.

“Nice speech there, general,” Bass announces with a wry smile. I don’t check his eyes to see if the shadow has passed.

“Mm,” I grumble. I’m too embarrassed to look Rachel in the face. When I finally sideways glance up at her, she’s staring over my shoulder at the enlistees as if she’s searching faces. Her kids are way too young to be here, but she told me once that she sits in the window sometimes and scans the crowds for familiar faces. I clear my throat, and she looks up at me in surprise, like I’ve startled her.

“That was really beautiful, Miles,” she murmurs before catching herself, “Er, General Matheson. Who knew you had such a way with words?”

“Thanks. I think.”

“You up for a ride, man? Rachel and I were thinking of heading out for a bit.”

“Um…” I glance at Rachel, but she’s still distracted, chewing on her lip. I duck my head closer to her, muttering, “Are you all right?”

“Some of them are barely more than kids,” she sighs, knitting her hands together, so soft and white compared to the rest of us out here.

“They enlisted, R-” I cover her name with a cough. “They want to be here.”

“They’re children. They don’t know what they want.”

“And _we_ do?”

Rachel looks up at me with narrowed eyes, her head cocked. “No,” she says finally, slowly, like she’s coming to this great realization all of a sudden. “No, I guess we never have. I’m sorry, you’re right. This is your world. What do I know?”

It unsettles me slightly - her coming around to my side of the matter with so little pushback. I almost feel worse when she agrees with me about the militia, as if somehow I’ve corrupted her to think like me. I purse my lips and wrinkle my brow, and she must take it as a sign that I’m upset with her (which I’m not), because she grabs my bicep and continues:

“Miles, wait. I… I got distracted, by how young they were, but,” she swallows hard, tiny fingers wrapped around my arm. “That was really impressive. They really seem to respect you and you deserve that. I know you don’t always think you do and… I know we’ve had our disagreements about how you do things.” That’s an understatement but she squeezes, leaning into me. “But you’re a great leader. People look up to you for a reason.”

“Uh...thanks,” I cough, red creeping up my neck. It’s just the sun - it’s already so hot out. I lightly shake her off - not cruelly - but she can’t be clutching me out here in full view of the troops. I try to apologize with my eyes.

“Where’s Felix?” I bark suddenly with a glimpse at Bass’ face. He appears to be biting back a chuckle. All right, I’m a blusher, and I _hate_ it. Bass loves to mock how ‘demure’ I am, but he’s restraining himself at the moment.

“Right behind you, sir,” Felix responds so immediately that I jump. He sharply salutes his commander-in-chief, who returns it with casual grace.

“Oh. I’m going to be out for the rest-”

“Yes sir,” he interrupts me, not because he’s being disrespectful, but because he’s already heard, anticipates everything, and knows I hate wasting time when we could be focused on what’s next. “Could I trouble you with a few reports first, sir?”

“Cliff notes version, lieutenant,” I grouse.

“Yes, sir. Maj. Bigley’s troops are in position at Big Manitou Falls.”

I picture a map of Lake Superior in my mind; I have a good memory for that stuff. “Alright, well, they need to hold down the lake, or we’re cooked. It’s our big east-west waterway on the northern border. Which clans are they up against?”

“Pewter’s and Hogsweed’s.”

I eye Bass, and he squints but defers to me, glancing down at his boots. Rachel’s bright eyes sharpen into focus. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess she actually understands what we’re talking about.

“Well I don’t know any Hogsweeds; what are they a fucking Harry Potter knock off? They must be new. And if they’re new, knowing Pewter, all the major has to do is a tight pincer - turn ‘em in on each other and let ‘em annihilate themselves. Fucking Plains. They have no loyalties to anyone. Just a bunch of vicious turkey vultures.”

“So your orders are to execute a pincer movement and fold the two clans in on each other, sir?”

I glance at Bass again, and he nods almost imperceptibly, looking up at me from under his eyebrows. Hell, I don’t have to defer to him on strategy, especially considering he’s been making contentious decisions lately, but he’s here, and I still like his approval. It’s lonely at the top for both of us.

“Yes,” I confirm.

Felix barrels on, “And here is our new recruitment poster, sir. You like it?” He unrolls an enormous image of Bass in full finery next to his flag. It reads, ‘President Monroe says: Enlist Now!’ I wheel around to lift my eyebrow at Bass, barely restraining a laugh. When Felix shifts it for Bass to see, Rachel snorts and Bass chuckles, nodding his sanction.

“Well. I’m inspired,” I deadpan.

“Alright, sir. And I have one thing for you to sign.” Felix holds out a clipboard and hands me a pen. “Right there, sir. And another one here. Just one more…”

Felix really knows me well, coaxing me in and then ambushing me with a stack of paperwork. Only way he’ll ever get anything signed, poor bastard.

“Done, sir!” Felix looks like he wants to award me a gold star for finishing my homework. “Last thing: Sgt. Lemming would like it if you could briefly stop in on the men at sword training. Apparently they’ve hit that demoralizing point in the regimen.”

“Of course. I’ll head over right away. I’ll even take the president with me for some extra motivation. Oh and Felix, can you have the stablehands prepare Zep, Smoke, and Canterbury?”

“Right away, sir.” We exchange a salute, and Felix’s extra formal one comes out for Bass again. When I nod at Bass and Rachel to follow me, I notice Rachel’s mouth looks tight.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her, wondering momentarily if she’s as twisted up over the Hogsweeds as I am. Another fucking war clan terrorizing our western border is all we need. Can you imagine if they ran amok all over the Great Lakes? Our supply lines would be sunk. Literally.

“Who’s Canterbury?” She asks in response. Ah, the horses. She’s a nervous rider. I always forget, because she’s the bravest woman I know. She could stare you down until you melt.

My mouth twitches up, not because I like when she shows vulnerability, but because, oh I don’t know, she _needs_ us - needs reassurance when it comes to horses - and it’s kind of fetching. I spent all morning worrying she hates me (for good reason), but instead, she’s been so complimentary and is currently walking close enough to me that I can smell her pine-sweetness, and it just makes me feel like we’re a real couple, you know? Because we’re passing in between buildings and no one can see us, I run the back of my hand across her cheek, cringing at how dry my own knuckles are across her soft skin, and say, “Canterbury’s a very gentle mount. Besides I picked her out specially for you.”

Bass smirks, and I notice he slides his fingers through hers on her other side. Their companionship is starting to infect me with a good mood, and I actually smile when she stops in her tracks to confirm:

“You bought me a horse?”

“Yeah. I mean, she’s a champagne - pretty rare. Kinda blonde like you. Thought you’d like her.”

Rachel flings her arms around my neck and kisses me on the lips, while I automatically tangle my fingers in her ponytail, an utter fool for this woman. I’m very pleased, because I’m usually shit at giving gifts. She pulls away, probably remembering how much I worry about the militia seeing, and we continue on our way to the old martial arts dojo we use for sword training.

As I hold the door for her and Bass, Bass winks at me as if to say, _You did good for once_. I force my smile into a scowl (and probably fail). Seriously, when did I get so fucking cheerful? I was set on one hell of a funk today.

We open the doors on a ruckus of men sparring in pairs, our drill sergeant, Lemming, barking orders at full voice.

“Where did you two learn to swordfight anyway?” Rachel asks, barely audible over the clinking and scraping of metal.

“Fencing coach from Penn State. He’s versed in all kinds of swordwork, western and eastern. Besides we practiced Kendo in our younger years,” I explain, and she curls her lips like she’s impressed.

“Really?”

“Hell yeah, samurai are badass!” exclaims Bass before glaring at a soldier who has lost focus to gape at him and received a gash on the face. “You need a medic, son?” Bass squints.

“No, sir!” Poor kid. He’s tomato red and bleeding from the head - an embarrassing way to make your introduction to the president.

Sgt. Lemming calls the soldiers to attention and everyone appears impressed to see the president make an appearance. Yeah, my man is something special around here, and he looks particularly mouthwatering when doused with sweat and brandishing his swords. That’s reason enough to force him to demonstrate with me, and though he shakes his head when I ask, I know he likes it. We’re both happy to show off in front of Rachel, and we even get a little competitive with each other as we clash; however, I’m the one who almost succeeds in getting Bass to drop his rapier. So suck it, Bass.

At the end of our little exhibition, I ask Bass to hold still and point at his legs with my saber.  

“See that? That’s a perfect stance.” I can tell how pleased he is, but he restrains his grin. “Volte forward, President?” I request. I have to be formal in front of the men, but it always feels a bit silly. I haven’t once called him sir...except for that one time when I was begging him to…oh nevermind.

He takes a step forward, and yeah, he looks good enough to eat with his legs spread at 45 degrees. Fuck me. I run a hand through my greased hair. Yep, now I’m just pleasuring myself for the second time today. When I glance back at Rachel - her arms crossed over her breasts and her lips pushed together in amusement - I’m pretty sure she can tell we’ve entered the portion of the lesson where I’m just posing Bass to ogle him.

On our way to the stable, I have to seriously restrain myself from pinching Bass’ pert little ass. He looks like he’s been fucked hard, his curls are so doused. I catch Rachel’s eye, and there’s definitely a spark of arousal there. I assume she’s thinking the same thing I am about Bass, but when she passes in front of me, gliding an errant finger across my crotch, I realize she has us both in mind.

By the time we set off on the horses, my balls are chaffing in the saddle from sweat. “Can we head to the lake?” I ask, longing for cool water.

“Sure. Centennial?” Bass suggests.

Rachel’s looking a bit more relaxed in the saddle even though she’s on a new mount, and I’m feeling finer by the second. Actually, next to Rach and Bass, there’s no one I’d rather have between my legs than my mare, Zeppelin. I give her a tiny squeeze with my calves, and she picks up the pace. That’s my girl.

I spend the better part of our hour ride pulled back behind my babes, internally devising various ways to make them gasp my name. For Rachel I decide on my tongue pushed all the way inside her, nudging that rough inner wall, and for Bass - hmm - maybe a spit-soaked finger hooked right in against his prostate. Yeah. I’m not making my ride any more comfortable right now.

We arrive at the lake, and I help Rachel down from her horse, her long leg hitching over Canterbury’s left to dismount. Yep. I’d like to take her pants off now and see those lean, white thighs up close and personal.

“Welp, I’m getting in,” I announce, unbuttoning my jacket and reaching for my fly. Bass is suddenly breathing down my neck, pulling on a sleeve for me.

“Are you sure you didn’t want to take Jim here instead of me?” he blurts like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment over the past two hours to ask this boneheaded question, his leathery breath a little too close. I pause to examine his face. Oh for fuck’s sake...really, Bass? Jealous? And here I was spending half our ride fantasizing about having my way with him. He really is a paranoid prick.

I push him back with a palm, as I work on my pants, and he stands there looking a little small. Touchy and volatile. I suppose I’m not really one to talk. “Bass, Jim is straight as an arrow,” I grumble. “Besides, no point in twisting up your balls, worrying over me with another man. You know you’re it for me.”

With a sharp puff, Bass starts to disrobe - not even wearing a goddamn undershirt. How does he do that and not smell rancid as hell? At least I seem to have assuaged his fragile ego enough that he’s dropped the Jim thing.

Rachel has peeled off her jacket (apparently wearing only a bra beneath - my two blondes with their twin habits) and is about to work on her wool trousers. Well, _that_ won’t do; I wanted to be the one to strip those off. I blunder at her, kneeling, and my big hands have a go at her tiny button, while she laughs at me - perfect, musical. God, this woman.

Oh fuck, I’m fighting to stay focused on the soft slope of her stomach before me and not the agony of this morning. It’s okay; _she wants you_. I can feel the wetness seeping through her satin panties as I drag the wool past them. I’m almost tempted to put my tongue inside her before the lake just to reassure myself.

“Is Bass the _only_ man you’ve ever been with?” she asks, gazing down at me intensely. Curious, direct - that’s my Rachel. Okay, I guess there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

I nod.

“Bass?” She turns her head and smiles at the sight of his naked ass bent over, discarding his socks and stuffing one in each riding boot. He peeks over his hip at us like he’s on the fucking cover of _Playgirl_ (and looks sexy as hell doing it).

“Oh, Bass’ll fuck anything on two legs,” I offer as I pull down Rachel’s panties, and she steps out of them, threading her fingers in my hair for balance.

“Thanks, Miles. That’s a very flattering portrait of me you’re painting,” Bass grouses and stands up tall, his hands on his hips, flaccid dick looking awfully appetizing. As if I think about other men the way I think about you, Bass.

I stand up and out of my pants and boxers, as Rachel unleashes from her bra the most gorgeous set of breasts I’ve ever seen. They’re supple and pearly white with delicate rose buds, and hell, I’m hard now. It’s rare that either of these two sees me flaccid.

Well, getting in’s always the hardest part, even, maybe _especially_ , on a hot day like today, when the contrast between air and water is so stark. I sprint toward the lake, thrusting my arms above my head and dive in with a splash. Christ! It is cold. And good. I push out to deeper waters and taunt my companions until they join me - one a cannonball and one a, I don’t know, golf ball. Rachel is a tall woman, but she manages to be dainty whatever she’s doing. In a moment, they’re treading water next to me.

“So, my Marines,” Rachel pants, breasts especially supple and buoyant. “Which of you is the stronger swimmer?”

“Miles,” Bass answers before I have a chance to think. “He’s got freakishly long arms and legs.”

“Hey!” I backhand a wave at his face.

Bass ducks under and comes back up, spitting water and forcing me to clench my eyes against the spray. He finishes, “ _But_ when Miles is in the water, his monster limbs look natural. Actually, he’s a beautiful swimmer, and I used to get all hot and bothered watching him train in the Marines. Distracting as hell.”

Rachel smirks, sliding her hands over Bass’ tan, wet shoulders down to the sculpted curves of his pecs.“How did you two ever make it through training when you were twenty and _that_ horny?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Bass admits with a melodramatic sigh.

I find I’m flattered and a bit flush with pleasure. It’s pathetic, but I do like when Bass compliments me; I like thinking back to when we were young and stupid and fresh in love. Alright, enough of this. I reach out for Rachel with both hands and pull her to me, sputtering.

“Hey,” I greet her when she catches her breath.

She wraps her chilly legs around me and clings, full breasts squished against my chest, so hell, I bury my face in them and inhale. She tosses her head back, and when I look up, Bass is encircling her from behind and kissing a line down her neck. I meet him at her left breast, and we take a minute to enjoy each other’s tongues and alternate that with tasting her puckered flesh - lake algae and her usual sweetness. Meanwhile, I reach forward to drag Rachel into me, the soft hair of her sliding against my erection. Okay, so it’s a bit difficult to get any traction here in deeper waters. Even anchored at the front and back, Rachel threatens to float away. I paddle us toward shore, until I can touch ground and plant my feet on the slippery rocks.

When I guide myself into her, warm and slick, I can tell Bass feels left out, and I hate that. It’s not like that, Bass. Rocking into her, one hand holding her ass in place, I reach around with the other for Bass’ hardness. Yeah. He’s all slippery and tight in the water, if awkwardly contorted in his attempt to thrust into my hand around Rachel. It’s a little confusing, managing all this holding, pushing, and pulling, so I just offer him a tight space to jerk into, while I focus on finding Rachel’s bundle of nerves.

She is panting and writhing, but I can’t quite get it right for her. At the moment, it’s actually Bass who seems closest. So I just do what I can for him, clenching my fist tighter, letting him buck to his edge and then seize up - the sudden warmth contrasted in cool water that lets me know he’s come. Yeah, baby. That’s good. I pull on him a little longer, until I feel his fingers fall on mine to stop me. Then I start walking Rachel to shore, her legs around my waist, me still buried deep within her. She’s breathing hard against my shoulder and gets heavier and heavier as we emerge dripping. I give a little nod to Bass to request his help and let him know he’s still wanted. We’re not putting him away, because he finished first.

Bass helps me support her and lay her out on the grass, and I finally have to slide out. Instantly, I mourn the loss of her comforting warmth with a sigh, and if her protest is anything to go by, so does she. I open her legs and lie down to bury my face in the swollen folds I just vacated. God, does she taste like berries - even more than usual. I fuck her with a few fingers and skim over the skin between her holes just a little, sucking on her clit. When I bother to look up, I see Bass is tracing her nipples with his tongue, and she’s thrown a hand over her face, slender fingers obscuring her pretty lips and muffling her moaning.

You know, it only now occurs to me that families might come here to fill their water jugs. Oh the fuck well. My girl is coming - _loud_ \- Bass sucking, me rubbing her nub hard and fast and staring at those exquisite fingers migrating all over her face.

Bass pops off her nipple, peeling away her fingers to claim her mouth now and drink in the sounds of her release, her hand clenched fiercely at the back of his neck. It’s an...arousing sight.

I skim my fingers through all her wetness and use it as lube, stroking my seriously hard cock and relishing the idea that it’s her I’m using. I, uh, would prefer to bury my cock in something at this point, and maybe they notice I’m a little neglected, because Rachel pulls me up by the hand so that I’m lying on my side by her. Jesus, she’s radiant today - skin glowing, teeth flashing.

“Turn over, Miles,” comes Bass’ lazy, raspy voice, as he gets up to step over our tangled bodies.

I turn to face him, as Rachel pulls my back against her curves and smoothes a hand over the muscles of my chest and stomach, catching in the hair there. Bass engulfs me fully in his mouth, hot, rough tongue tracing the underside of my cock.

“Mmmm,” I whisper, and Rachel gets interested, sliding her tiny fingers around the base of my dick to knead it gently. “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. It’s an awful lot of noise for me, but it’s so damn consuming to have two people focused on you at once, and this morning in the tub...I just felt so lonely.

Bass pulls back to suck hard on my tip, planting his fingers above Rachel’s to give me some nice pressure. I always warn Rachel when I’m about to finish, but Bass can handle it raw. I thrust down against his tongue and let their fingers twist me up. I let go completely, feeling Bass struggle momentarily to accommodate the force of my orgasm. He swallows on me and damn, damn he’s good. It’s stupid, but I always feel so grateful to him after.

I roll over and bury my face in Rachel’s soft breasts, because I feel all weirdly emotional about her and Bass. I think she’s laughing at me, as she strokes my hair, lake water trailing down my spine. I flail a hand backward at Bass to thank him, and he entwines his long fingers in mine. We spend the better part of an hour lying out in the sun, humidity making it unreasonably difficult to dry off, but I don’t really mind, one hand tangled in Bass’ and the other in Rachel’s. It’s not often I’m in the middle. This is not a bad way to blow an afternoon. And if I do what’s right and let Rachel go, there may not be many of these left.

Then, we’re back on our horses heading home, Bass in the lead, Rachel behind him, and me taking up the rear. I’m gazing at Rachel’s delicious ass in her saddle, completely spaced and blissful, when it happens: I don’t even register its presence until it’s too late. A simple garden snake. But it slithers at Canterbury’s left front hoof, and she rears, spooking Zep as well. However, whereas Zeppelin and I have survived artillery fire and congreve rockets together, Canterbury is a gentle soul, unused to her rider. I circle Zep off to the side, but Rachel gets thrown.

I hear the sick, cracking of her head from up here. I fling myself from my saddle, because her foot is still entangled, and I’m terrified she’s broken her leg _and_ her head. Once I unthread her ankle, I gather her head carefully into my lap and stare panicked at Bass, who crouches low to run his fingers over her bleeding temple. He caresses her cheeks, his blue eyes wide with alarm.

“Rachel, wake up,” I coax her, cradling her neck. I’ve held countless men I care about on the battlefield this way, but Rachel? This I cannot stand - I do not have the strength. I squeeze my eyes together and insist, “Rachel, wake up. Goddammit!” I’m trying desperately not to shake her, to keep her immobilized like they taught us in the Corps for head injuries.

“Jesus, Miles, don’t yell at her!” Tears have jumped into Bass’ eyes, but he continues to smooth his fingers over her face. “Come on, Rach. We’re here. It’s okay. You had an accident. Come back to us.”

But she’s not responding, and the roar of blood in my ears is deafening. “Oh God.” I’m not even sure which one of us has said it, but it’s the sound of our hope draining away.

Something else isn’t right, because Bass is suddenly repeating my name to get my attention. “Miles. Miles, look.” He holds up his bloodstained fingers, and it takes me ages to realize that it’s not from her head. Her _thighs_ are covered in blood.

It doesn’t even make sense. How can she be bleeding from everywhere at once? I did this to her. I bought her this horse. I made her ride when I knew she was uncomfortable. I kept her in Philly when I should have let her go.

Oh, Rachel. What have I done to you?


	10. Handwritten Speech Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know what you think in the comments - we love to hear from all of you!
> 
> Many, many thanks to the graphics-genius Maywitch for design and execution of the speech below. Seeing Bass' and Rachel's handwriting come to life... Guh. I believe she said the coffee cup stain on the second sheet was Miles' fault. Yep, that sounds like my boy! :)

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: May 23, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: Kendra Chang  
Field Coordinates:

  *       Latitude: 39.948876
  *       Longitude: -75.150024
  *       Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Handwritten speech notes  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Two sheets of yellow-lined notebook paper with blue ink; corrections in red ink  
Location: 2E[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Paper crumbled with fold down the center. Brown cup stain on page two.

 **Transcript of Written Document**  
Today marks the fifth anniversary of the end of the Siege of Philadelphia, a day I both dread and anticipate each year. It is a day that bears the grief of 398 lost lives, but a day those of us who survived have never regretted. The men who died that day will always be remembered and respected as the high cost of order and peace.

Philadelphia is more than our capital; it is our home. This city is the heart _of the Republic and a shining example of_ honor, _and_ security ~~and of the Republic.,~~ _thanks to the sacrifices made five years ago_. When the exhausted remaining militia marched into Philly that afternoon, their uniforms mismatched and covered in dirt and blood, a change came over them: over us, myself and General Matheson included. We became not weary, bedraggled soldiers but an army with a glimmer of hope in our futures. In everyone’s futures

Philadelphia ~~represents~~ _is_ more than simply a brick building and a state seat. It’s the City of Brotherly Love and perhaps that’s overused but it makes it no less true. This nation is built on the love of soldier for duty, of man for country and of brother for brother. _What about the rest of us, Bass? ‘Don’t forget about the ladies’ and all that._ Today, our militia is some of the best trained on the continent and ~~crime has fallen to the West by significant numbers~~. _Not specific enough. Try: Philadelphia is safer than ever before, and we’ve seen significant decline in raids by war clans on the Western borders._ Five years ago today, a ragtag army marched into this city with whispers of “For the Militia.” Now, cries of “For the Republic” fill our streets on occasions of victory, of solemnity and of peace. Today is an occasion of all three: for the Republic!

 

**Spring 2020: Rachel**

It’s officially been spring for a few weeks now but this is the first day I’ve felt that tingle of spring fever coiled in my sleep-heavy muscles before I even open my eyes in the morning. Blinking against the bright sunshine streaming in through my windows, I find Miles tucked under me, my cheek pressed to his bare chest. His arm is trapped under me and I fumble my left hand out to search for Bass.

It lands on his thigh, and he reaches down to squeeze my fingers as I roll over towards him. “What are you doing?” I mumble, burying my head in the pillow.

Faced with the prospect of actually getting up, my spring fever fades a bit. “Working,” Bass murmurs, and I hear the soft scratching of a pen on paper.

Sighing, I push myself up beside him and slump against his shoulder, eyes closing again. “On what?”

“Saturday is Militia Day. Got to give a speech. Part of the job description.” He shifts under me, getting comfortable, and I feel his lips brush my forehead.

“Mm, need help?”

“What, no sarcasm, no disgust?” He’s teasing, but it is fair: I’m rarely so amenable to their pageantry. The uniforms that look like they belong in a museum, the Liberty Bell in the hallway, even making Independence Hall, of all places, their home. It’s all a tad over the top.

“Even the most satisfied citizens get restless. You have to give them a reason to celebrate now and then. Keep them placated.” I peek an eye open at him, adding on principle, “And _your_ citizens are less than satisfied so you probably have to work extra hard at it.”

Bass rolls his eyes before flicking my arm with a smirk. “You’re a citizen. Have I ever left _you_ unsatisfied?”

I arch an eyebrow up at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He growls softly under his breath, ducking his head to suck on the tender skin beneath my ear. “That sounds like a challenge.”

It would be easy enough to lean into him and spend the morning being thoroughly ravished. But I’m more interested in the prospect of work, to be honest. I don’t bother to push him off, just reach over and pluck the notebook from his lap. Bass groans his complaint but sits back, tugging me against his chest.

Stroking my foot along Miles’ leg, tangled up under me, I lean back into Bass, relishing the warmth of three bodies. He smooths my hair, snarled in the night, as I skim through his notes. It’s not bad, if a little preachy.

“Do I pass, professor?” he rumbles in my ear, and I nudge him with my elbow even as he bends to kiss me. I know he’s only trying to provide a distraction; Bass likes my help but not my opinions.

Tipping my head back to meet him, I sink into the kiss, his arms crossing around me. Miles shifts in his semi-sleep, rolling over to nestle himself against my side. “You pass,” I murmur when we break apart. “But it’s still not an A paper.”

Bass grumbles at my grin as I run my fingers through Miles’ hair. “Well, fine then, _you_ fix it if it’s so bad.”

An idea comes to me, and I press my lips together, wondering if I should follow through. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m blurting out, “On one condition.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And what is that?”

“I get to come to the party. I don’t even have to go outside; I just want to go downstairs.”

Bass heaves a sigh, bright blue eyes darting to Miles’ sleeping form. “I don’t know, Rachel.”

“You promised me I could have a little more freedom, if at least one of you was with me. You could at least _try_ to hold up your end of-”

“I know,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. “But Miles won’t be happy about it.”

I crumple the edge of the notebook paper in my hand, squinting up at the bright windows to avoid looking at either of them. “Stings that he doesn’t trust me.”

“Hey.” Bass doesn’t make me look at him, doesn’t try to kiss it away. “You know that’s not it. He just worries about everything. And _any_ thing. He loves you.”

“So you tell me.” And he does. He repeats it regularly.

“He _does_.” Bass sighs, peeling the papers out of my grip. “Look, I’ll see about getting you a cover story. It has to be something believable. If it works out, you can come, whatever Miles says. Okay?”

I glance over at him and nod in acquiescence. “Okay.”

Bass gets up and leaves the speech on my desk. Probably an hour passes, Miles still passed out next to me, before I bother to get out of bed myself. The morning ticks away as it always does: slow and dull, though the prospect of people and conversation and music is enough to fuel my restlessness.

Miles has finally dragged himself out of my bed and, kissing me on the cheek, stumbled across to his room to get dressed. I’m sitting at my secretary desk in my robe, chewing on the end of a red pen as I mark up Bass’ speech, when he lets himself in without knocking, as usual.

“Good news,” Bass announces with a genuine, if wary, grin. Twisting in my chair, I raise an eyebrow at him. “Got you a cover story.”

I try to restrain my smile, but I think it slips out anyway, my voice shaking slightly in excitement. “Really?”

“Captain Lennox has graciously offered to be your date; his wife is in Boston visiting her sister. As of Saturday night, you’re Mrs. Jane Tollsbury, the Captain’s cousin down from New Jersey.” He waves a paper with scrawled notes on it in my face. “Study up. You’ll have to keep your story straight.”

My smile widens, and I stand, flinging my arms around his neck. “Thank you,” I whisper, his hands spanning my back. I can feel him smile into my hair, and I wonder if he actually does want me at this party. Sometimes it’s difficult to know how much either of them really feels for me.

I practically skip around my room for two days in anticipation of the festivities, like a teenage girl before prom. Granted, the day is in celebration of a government I loathe and a battle that killed hundreds of people. But, I suppose, what holiday doesn’t involve bloodshed somewhere in its history? Capone even managed to ruin goddamn Valentine’s Day.

Saturday rolls around and for once my room is a little crowded: Molly, the maid, kneels on the window seat, half-leaning out the window, and the kitten (practically a cat now), jumps up on the windowsill. I’m tucked into the corner, the curtain fluttering around me in the breeze.

Bass and Miles are outside under the windows, and there’s a crowd of maybe a hundred out in front. The troops lined up behind them dwarf that number. There’s bunting on the windows and around the stairs where the boys stand, addressing their adoring officers.

I stroke Morella’s mottled fur, letting her nuzzle my hand, and listen with one ear to Molly babbling about the party tonight. I’m excited for this glimpse of freedom but a little trepidatious as well. I’ve become sort of a recluse. Not by choice of course, but still, the thought of actually walking downstairs, of talking to people, is so difficult to comprehend.

“Are you excited?” Molly’s asking me, her hands braced on the sill. “Jeremy promised me a dance, even though I’ll probably get scolded in the kitchen for neglecting my duties.” She shrugs carelessly. “Whatever. I’m going to enjoy myself. Oh, it’s going to be so much fun! We have to finish your hair.” Reaching out, she fluffs my curls and drags a small smile out of me.

“Yes, I’m excited. But my hair is fine the way it is.”

Molly’s young, sweet. A little airheaded, maybe. Sunlight glints off her red hair as she waves out the window at someone. Jeremy, no doubt. Or some other toy soldier she has her eye on. “You do _not_ get to blow this off. This is your one chance to get dressed up.”

“Okay, okay,” I nod vaguely, watching the cat jump down. Bass has begun his proselytizing downstairs, and even though I helped him write the speech, it’s quite a different thing to hear him say it all out loud. To hear him wholeheartedly believe it.

There’s a knock at the door, and I call out for them to enter. Lennox peeks in with a grin; it’s a bit infectious. Some of my excitement returns, and I wave him in.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Matheson.” He’s carrying a white box, and _that_ gets Molly’s attention.

“Is that a dress?” she exclaims, shooting off the window seat.

“I believe so.” Lennox passes the box off to her with a laugh before moving to wrap me in a warm hug. “I hear we’re cousins for the night.”

“I heard that too,” I chuckle, squeezing him tight. Molly squeals from across the room, holding up a dress from the box, a deep navy blue satin with wide straps and a gathered neckline. It’s gorgeous, and from the clunking of the box, I’m guessing there’s jewelry tucked in there too. Maybe even a pair of heels. I wonder if I can manage to wear heels all night after so many years without them.

“Who’s it from?” I ask, nodding to the dress though we all know the answer.

“President Monroe. Asked me to hand deliver it.”

“Mm, it wasn’t Miles that went dress shopping for me? I’m _shocked_.”

Lennox laughs, patting my cheek. “I think I’ll leave you girls to it,” he teases with a wink.

Molly ushers him out and then ushers me in an equally insistent way over to the vanity where she tugs and twists and fusses until my hair is half-piled up, my wild curls looking for once intentional. “You’re always gorgeous but they’re going to just die over you tonight,” she murmurs at one point, brushing a bit of blush on my cheeks.

I peek an eye open. “Who?”

She flushes, covering with a quick, “Everybody!” And the boys think our trio is a well-kept secret.

Molly rubs a little beeswax and beetroot on my bottom lip with her fingertip before pronouncing me finished. I meet my eyes in the mirror while she gathers the dress from the bed. I can’t say I never cared about these feminine sorts of things, (I wore too much eyeliner all through undergrad), but I also haven’t cared about feeling pretty in many years, not with the Blackout and then my seclusion in Philly. My eyes are slightly misty when Molly returns with the dress and jewelry, but she graciously doesn’t comment.

Molly helps me into the dress and zips it up, winding a length of pearls around my neck. It hugs my breasts with the barest hint of cleavage and stops at my knees with a little flare for walking. I’m just pulling on a low pair of black heels when Lennox knocks at the door.

We exchange all the expected pleasantries, and it isn’t even awkward, despite the situation. He has a way of putting people at ease that is probably exactly what landed him the job as Bass’ aide in the first place. He tells me I look wonderful and offers me his arm, leading me through the office.

I stop in the hallway though, barely a step out of the office. The party’s already started downstairs: I can hear strains of a violin and people talking and laughing. Lennox pauses beside me instantly, laying a hand over my fingers on his arm. “Are you all right?”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m fine. I just- need a moment-” My brow knits, and my hands shake. Squeezing my eyes shut, I press the pads of my fingers to my forehead.

He leads me gently over to the desk outside Bass’ office, and I perch on the edge, staring at the toes of my shoes in embarrassment. “Just nerves?” he asks, resting a hand on my shoulder.

“I guess. I haven’t hardly spoken to anyone but them and you and, um, Molly and Jeremy in…” It takes me a moment to think about exactly how long I’ve spent in that room: over nine months.

He doesn’t let me dwell on it, adding, “Well, and Morella of course.”

“Oh of course. She’s the best company out of all of you,” I laugh in spite of myself, standing up off the desk. “I’m sorry, I’m all right.”

Lennox offers me his arm, and I take a deep breath but slide my hand through and let him lead me downstairs. The stairs creak under our footsteps, candlelight bouncing off the glossy painted blue walls. There are garlands of flowers draped along the railing on the first floor and the sweet, pungent scent of camellias follows us down into the hallway, wide columns rising above our heads. Almost immediately, we’re standing in a crowd of people: officers and their wives, mostly. It’s still daylight but large iron candelabras hang from the ceiling, their candles flickering under glass.

We work our way down the hall and through the open double doors of the Assembly Room. The windows are open and a breeze tosses the curtains over long tables laden with food: roast beef, venison, duck, brown bread and fresh vegetables from the greenhouses outside the city. On the other wall, there are tiered trays of truffles, petits fours and fresh strawberries on either side of a large blue and white cake that must have taken several dozen eggs and two days to make.

There’s a string quartet in the corner, and it strikes me how much wealth is piled up in this room like it’s nothing. Independence Hall isn’t exactly Versailles, but we’re certainly eating more than our fair share of cake tonight.

Bass is standing in a circle of women with that brilliant smile splitting his face. I catch his eye over their heads, and he looks me up and down, smile turning smirk in a second. Then Lennox is tugging me across the room toward a young couple standing beside the quartet. The dark-haired man, a perpetual crease between his eyes, has his arm around a very pregnant blonde.

“Felix!” Lennox claps him on the shoulder and leans in to kiss the girl on the cheek. “Jane, this is Lt. Felix Hess and his girlfriend, Julianne. Guys, this is my cousin, Jane. She’s visiting from Jersey.”

I smile, a little less anxiously now, and shake their hands. “It’s so nice to meet you. And congratulations,” I add with a laugh.

“Thank you!” She grins, rubbing a hand over her belly. “Just a few more weeks now.”

“Do you have names picked out?” I ask, mostly just making small talk, though they seem like a sweet couple. Julianne answers, James or Angela, I think, but I’m busy following Lieutenant Hess’ gaze over to what is no doubt the source of his ‘perpetual crease’: Miles. Finally, I recognize the name as one Miles has mentioned before, his personal aide, I think.

I keep up my end of the conversation but can’t help watching Miles fixate on the musicians, a glass of whiskey in one hand and the other shoved in his pocket. His hair is slicked back, shoulders hunched slightly, and a frown set on his face. I must be staring because Lennox squeezes my elbow to get my attention though he doesn’t comment.

We’re interrupted by Bass with some excuse about saying hello to Lennox, though he just saw him two hours ago. Really, he just wants the chance to see me up close in his dress, I know. Felix and Julianne drift off to find food and Lennox introduces us with a perfectly straight face.

Bass bends over my hand with a wink, brushing a kiss across my knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tollsbury.”

Lennox is far too genteel to outright laugh at this ridiculously staged situation but even he has to cover his amusement with a cough.

I clear my throat, drawing my hand back and trying to restrain my smirk. “Of course I’m honored, Mr. President.”

“How are you liking Philadelphia?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of it.”

Bass at least looks suitably contrite for a moment before gesturing to the musicians. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I at least show you around the dance floor?”

I hesitate, but Lennox leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “You’re in good hands,” he promises as if reassuring his sweet upstate cousin that President Monroe will be a perfect gentleman.

“Well, then, how can I say no?”

Bass takes my hand, leading me into the midst of a number of other couples, and though there are dozens of eyes on us, I feel like I have a degree of anonymity just for a moment. He draws me warmly against him, fingers lacing through mine and his other hand coming to rest at my waist. I’m a little impressed by how easily he steps into a waltz, spinning me into the middle of the floor.

“So what did you do? Measure me in my sleep?” I ask finally, leaning into him so I can murmur in his ear.

Bass chuckles, arm tightening around me, his hand dipping a little lower on my ass. “It’s a great fit. I have an excellent tailor.”

I roll my eyes, kneading my hand at his shoulder in what I hope is an unobtrusive way. “Thank you for letting me do this.”

“Are you sure? You seem a little nervous.” He bends closer, brow knitting in concern. “Is everything all right?”

“I just wasn’t expecting to feel so overwhelmed. All these people, all this noise, it’s a little disorienting after being locked away for nearly a year.” Bass never flinches the same way Miles does when I say things like that, but I still get a little jolt of satisfaction. I catch sight of Miles as we make a turn around the room, his dark eyes dropping to the floor just as my eyes shift to him. His shoulders deflate a little more. He looks profoundly out of his element and even a touch more melancholy than usual.

I’m lost in thought, but the song must have ended because Bass is putting a respectable distance between us. Before he pulls away entirely though, he whispers in my ear, “Wish all these people were gone so I could take that dress off you.”

I feel my cheeks turn pink; there’s something different about Bass being suggestive in the midst of so many prying ears. Something more unsettling about it. “I think it’s time for some champagne. Buy me a drink, Mr. President?”

“Of course. Forgive me, Mrs. Tollsbury- can I call you Jane? Forgive me, Jane, I should be a better host. A woman like you should never be without a glass of champagne.”

I slip back into the role he obviously wants me playing, even though he seems perfectly willing to disregard that role himself. Lennox appears at my shoulder and Bass deposits me in his hands, a glass of champagne in mine, and disappears. I suppose I shouldn’t feel dismissed (he has a lot of people to talk to and a lot of egos to massage tonight), but I do.

Before I can fully process Bass’ abrupt departure, there’s a woman striding into my space with a smile that’s more predatory than gracious. “You must be Jane,” she announces, holding out a hand. “I’ve already heard so much about you.”

I arch an eyebrow, eyeing her hand in mild annoyance before reaching out slowly to shake it. “Really? I’ve been here all of twenty minutes.”

Lennox clears his throat behind me, setting a hand on my shoulder. “Hello, Mrs. Neville. Jane’s my cousin, but you probably already knew that.”

“I _had_ heard that, Walter,” she replies with a condescending tilt of her head. “Could you get me a refill? Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your cousin.” She holds up her wine glass and stares at him until he sighs, squeezing my shoulder.

“Of course. Anything for you, Jane?” I shake my head, holding up my champagne as reminder, and he chuckles in spite of himself, disappearing across the room with Mrs. Neville’s wine glass.

“I’m Julia,” she says, tugging me into a quieter corner. “So how long are you in town, Jane?”

“Ah, just for the holiday.” I sip at my glass, glancing around the room. I have a feeling I’m going to need an escape.

“You came over from Jersey just for one day?” She raises her eyebrows like she doesn’t believe it, and I shake my head, drawing up the cover story from memory.

“No, I’m on my way down to Germantown in a few days. My husband is waiting for me there.”

“Oh, is he militia?”

I pause, considering the ridiculous idea of Ben in the militia. “No. No, he’s a teacher.”

Julia looks disappointed. I must not be interesting or scandalous enough for her. If only she knew. “Well. It must be very exciting, getting to be here with your cousin. You even danced with the President!”

“From what I hear, that’s not much of an honor,” I say dryly but cringe at the horrified look she pins me with and scramble to cover. “I just mean, it seems like he dances with about every woman in the room.”

Julia fakes a laugh after a beat. “Yes, he does get around. Don’t take that to heart though: he wouldn’t have asked you to dance if he wasn’t at least interested. Are you sure you’ve never been to Philly? You and President Monroe seemed rather… familiar, just now.”

“First time I’ve ever met him. Unfortunately for him, I’m very happily married.” My smile is as fake as her laugh as I wave my wedding ring at her. It bites, playing this part. I wasn’t even happily married the last time I _saw_ my husband and that was a year ago. For all I know, he’s told the kids I’m dead and has remarried.

Before Julia can continue to grill me, Julianne sweeps in and grabs my hand, babbling something about Felix and Walter and ‘so sorry, Julia, excuse us.’ She drags me out into the hall, stopping by one of the columns. “You’re welcome,” she grins.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Thank you. Did I look like I was in distress?”

“Nah, you can probably hold your own against her. But it’s a party. No one should have to deal with Julia at a party.” She glowers across the room. “I can’t stand her. Well, we can’t stand each other. She’s just jealous that Felix is closer to General Matheson than Tom is.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable, so I nod to the window seat at the end of the hall. “Do you want to sit down?”

“ _Yes_.” Julianne huffs a laugh of relief and shuffles over to the seat. It’s just wood, uncushioned, but she immediately looks more relaxed off her feet. I perch beside her, surveying the crowd.

“God, I’m so uncomfortable. This baby needs to come out already,” she grumbles, toeing her shoes off and ignoring the pointed glares of a couple of nearby militia wives, all perfectly coiffed.

Reaching over, I pat her hand gently. “It’s worth it. I know everyone says that, but it really is. In a few weeks, you’ll forget all about the swollen ankles and the need to pee every five minutes.”

Julianne snorts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I _swear_ he spends all night just kicking my bladder.”

“He?”

She blushes. “ _I_ think it’s a boy.”

“I was old-fashioned. I didn’t want to know, even though both my kids were born before the Blackout. I stuck with it on my daughter but my son… I was about seven months along when the doctor, not my usual doctor, someone else, slipped up and accidentally told us it was a boy. It was a hard pregnancy, and I was just so grateful to have that tangible little piece of my baby to hang onto.”

I glance over and find her smiling, eyes glassy and shining. “I wish I could know for sure. I guess I’ll know soon enough but the suspense is just too much.”

“That part’s worth it too,” I promise, staring into my glass at the bubbles. I wonder where Charlie and Danny are right now.

Felix appears out of the crowd and drops onto the seat beside us, draping his arm over Julianne’s shoulders. “Was wondering where you went,” he mumbles into her hair and my heart aches a little at how sweet and comfortable they are with each other.

“Had to rescue Jane here from Julia. She was about to sink her hooks in,” she explains with a bit of a sneer.

He kisses the top of her head, eyes scanning, and I follow his gaze to find him watching Miles again, who’s stumbled out into the hall, probably looking for fresh air like everyone else.

“You’re very devoted, Lieutenant,” I murmur, and he darts a glance at me in surprise.

I nod to Miles, offering as explanation, “Walter told me you are for General Matheson what he is for the president. You haven’t let him out of your sight all night.”

“I always tease him that the only reason I haven’t agreed to marry him yet is because he’s secretly in love with the general,” Julianne agrees, ducking his swat at the back of her head with a grin.

“Just doing my job, ma’am. General Matheson hates these things. Makes him even grumpier than usual.”

I almost laugh at that because he’s right: Miles always comes home from these social events with a deeper scowl and a quicker temper. Lennox appears suddenly with two fresh glasses of champagne. “I thought you might need a refill by the time I was done running Julia’s errands,” he says dryly, and Julianne stifles a laugh.

I set my indeed-empty glass aside and take the fresh one as he leans against the wall above us. “Thanks, Walter. Sorry we abandoned you.”

“Not at all. When Julia’s involved, it’s every man for himself.”

“Every man for himself tonight in other ways too,” Felix leans in closer, arm still around Julianne, his voice dropping. “Notice anything off yet?”

Lennox leans in over my head, one hand braced on the wall. “Kip says it’s either Silver or Pembroke. My money’s on Silver,” he adds in an equally hushed voice.

I lift my eyebrows in question. “What’s going on?”

“She knows about the rebels, Felix,” Lennox murmurs.

I paste on a suitably heartbroken face which admittedly isn’t that difficult. “My sister was killed in a rebel bombing in Glassboro.”

Julianne rests a sympathetic hand on my knee, and though she’s comforting me for the fake loss of a fake family member, I can’t help feeling grateful for her kindness.

Felix darts a glance around the room and back at the three of us. He really has little reason to trust me, but I suppose I’m Walter’s family, as far as he’s concerned, and I’ll be gone soon anyway.

“Someone’s been siphoning off cartridges from our stores, most likely to stock the rebels. They think they’re being careful, but by chance, Kip caught on last week. See, some of the supply crates got diverted to Baltimore, and Kip thought they seemed too heavy, so he dumped them out. As it happens, there were false bottoms on top of rows of cartridges. He and the generals think it’s an officer who’s turned. God, I hope it’s not true.”

Lennox shrugs, running a hand over his face. “Believe me, so do I. We don’t need any more traitors making the generals nervous.”

 _Now isn’t that the truth?_ The boys have been on edge about these ‘rebels’ for months, and I know it’s taking a toll. If one of their own officers is a traitor, I can’t imagine what they’ll do to him. How much more paranoid Bass will get, how much more brutal Miles will.

“I’m sorry, Jane, don’t mean to be talking shop,” Lennox says suddenly, probably realizing that my mind is wandering.

“That’s all right,” I protest. “Which one is Lieutenant Silver?”

Felix scans the crowd and points him out discreetly, a tall, hollow-cheeked man with narrow shoulders and a hawk nose. There’s a woman on his arm, dark wavy hair swinging to her shoulders and heavy makeup lining her eyes. She tosses her head back with a loud laugh, jewelry glinting at her wrists. “That’s Frenchie, his wife,” Felix explains.

“Can one of you distract her? I’ll talk to him. You’d be surprised what a man will tell a woman he thinks he’ll never see again.”

Lennox stares at me in surprise, but Felix jumps at the opportunity. “I don’t know what you can get out of him but any little bit helps.”

Turning to Julianne, I ask if Frenchie has any children and am told she does: two girls. “Can you pull her aside, ask for her advice on the baby? Mothers love to talk about babies with pregnant girls and even if they don’t, they feel too guilty about it to say no. Believe me.”

Julianne laughs, holding her hand out for Lennox to help her up and sliding her feet back into her shoes. “Why not? Sounds exciting: a little political intrigue,” she jokes, reaching over to ruffle Felix’s hair.

She threads her way through the crowd, people parting on either side of her in sympathy (she looks so uncomfortable, poor thing), and in a few minutes, Lieutenant Silver is left alone, making small talk with several other single officers.

“That’s my cue.” I stand, smoothing my skirt with one hand. Before I can walk away, Lennox grabs my arm, brow knit.

“Careful, Jane.” He looks genuinely worried, and I pat his cheek, feeling more relaxed than I have all evening.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to go stirring any treasonous pots. Just feel him out.” Lennox still looks concerned, (he probably thinks the boys are going to be mad at him for letting me play spy), but I’ve abated him enough to slip away, champagne glass in hand.

Miles is right in my path to Silver and probably thinks I’m heading for him. He confirms it as I near, gesturing vaguely towards me, mouth opening to say something. What, I can’t imagine. We don’t know each other, as far as anyone here is concerned.

I brush against him without making eye contact, arm sliding against his wool uniform. I resist the urge to drag my knuckles over his crotch, but he groans into his glass anyway. Lifting a hand like I’m waving to someone, I purposely bump into Lieutenant Silver so the champagne glass slips out of my hand. It crashes on the hardwood floor, splashing over his boots. The circle of people nearest to us pause to glance over but as soon as the mundane source of the interruption is confirmed, they return to their conversations and gossip.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I cry, grabbing his arm. “It’s _so_ crowded in here.”

Silver kicks champagne off his boots, steadying me with one hand. “You’re all right, ma’am, just a little glass.” He glances around the room and snaps his fingers at someone nearby. “Miss, can you clean this up please?”

Molly ducks into view, winking at me from behind her bright red hair. “Of course, sir.” She sweeps up the mess with a towel as we move aside. Jeremy’s the only one not ignoring her, slapping her ass as he passes behind her and earning himself a yelp.

“Lieutenant Silver. You’re Lennox’s family, right?” he’s saying, holding out a hand.

Shaking his hand, I laugh in genuine disbelief. “Word spreads quickly in this town. Jane Tollsbury.”

“Let me get you a refill, Mrs. Tollsbury. Least I can do for breaking your glass on my foot,” he offers with a smile. Suddenly, I hope he’s innocent or at least very, very good at hiding his disloyalty.

My hope doesn’t last long. As we’re standing by the bar, the bartender carelessly trips over one of the crates of champagne, and Silver jumps nervously as it rattles. He curls a hand around my arm and draws me away from the bar, sending an anxious glance back over his shoulder at the box. Immediately, I think of what Felix said about the crates with “false bottoms on top of rows of cartridges.” That would mean a considerable load of powder not to mention primer. Silver’s incongruous reaction is at least worth mentioning to Felix and Lennox. He leads me back out into the hall like a gentleman, (more so than Bass was, certainly), and then excuses himself a little too quickly to return to his wife.

I drift casually back over to Felix and Lennox and whisper, “What usually happens to the champagne boxes at the end of the night?”

“Oh we reuse them to carry supplies to our camps outside the city: blankets, tents, rations. Those crates have been multi-purpose for years,” Lennox explains, his eyes scanning the room.

“Do you have a shipment planned for tomorrow?” I ask.

Felix drops his ever-aware gaze to my face, brow knitting. “Of course. Every Sunday. They’re headed for Annapolis to our biggest encampment.”

“Why do you have so many troops stationed there?”

His voice drops. “There’s a big concentration of rebels there.”

“Well then, I’m afraid Lieutenant Silver is your man.”

“You found out in two minutes what we’ve been stressing about for days?” He sounds impressed rather than skeptical, scratching at his jaw.

“I was just in the right place at the right time.” As I explain what I saw at the bar, Felix signals Miles over, and my heart skips. I’m not sure if I’m nervous or excited to finally interact with him. He straightens his shoulders as he drags himself over to us, unable to keep his eyes from skimming over me though he appears to be trying very hard to do otherwise.

“What?” he demands, unabashedly gruff with these kind men.

“Sir, this is my cousin, Jane Toll-”

“Mmhm,” he interrupts Lennox, shaking my hand absentminded for a brief second and turning his attention back to Felix.

“Well, sir, Mrs. Tollsbury figured out who the traitor is.”

 _Now_ Miles pays attention to me, his dark eyes suddenly trained on my face: alert, surprised, perhaps a bit alarmed.

“It’s Lt. Silver,” Felix explains, practically whispering.

“Silver!?” he barks trying to hush himself. “Fuck!”

“Sir,” Felix chides, and I almost laugh.

“Uh, sorry, Mrs., er, Tollhouse.”

Lennox has to try very hard not to snort. “Tollsbury, sir. She’s not a cookie.”

Felix shakes his head in evident dismay at Miles’ manners. I press my lips together over a smile. I’m not sure if he’d be even more horrified or impressed by Miles’ generous, if overpowering, manners in the bedroom. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

“Nothing. You two stay here and make sure the party’s safe. Especially you, Lennox.” He eyes me like he fears for my safety. “Jim and I will take care of him.”

“Sir, by yourselves?” Felix asks with hesitation.

“What Felix - don’t think I can take him? He fights like a pus- uh, sorry Mrs. Tollho-”

“It’s quite all right,” I cut him off, urging him with a flick of my hand to take care of his traitor.

Miles nods shortly, keeping his eyes firmly on my face before he edges off and taps Jim’s shoulder. After a few words in Jim’s ear they step on either side of Silver and usher him away.

It doesn’t seem like a very official arrest, with only two other officers knowing what they’re up to or where they’re headed. With a flash of concern, I round on Lennox and ask in a rush, “Will Mi- General Matheson be safe?”

Lennox squeezes my shoulder, understanding in his eyes. “Jane, there’s not an officer in this militia that could outfight General Matheson. Felix only frets over him, because he’s a mother hen.”

Felix scoffs, but he does follow Miles out of the building with his eyes. It’s a bit reassuring that I’m not the only one to worry over one of the most feared men in the Northeast.

Miles finds us an hour or two later, muttering in Felix’s ear that Lieutenant Silver has been locked up and Jim is overseeing interrogation until the morning. Surely Jim is only too grateful to escape the rest of the party. I’m not exactly sure why Miles decided to come back. He looks miserable as ever to be in the midst of all these carousing brown-nosers and sullenly resumes his post by the quartet (though his eyes drift back to my cleavage often enough that I consider giving him hell for it later).

It’s long after midnight when the party has finally dwindled to the last few people: Felix and Julianne, the Pembrokes, Major Bigley and Colonel Henderson. Even Jeremy and Molly sneaked off a while ago to the kitchens. He’s probably got his pants around his ankles by now and Molly bent over the butcher block.

Bigley’s so drunk, his eye patch has slipped down over his nose and he’s arguing with Pembroke about the cost of venison in the city. He bangs his fist on the dessert table, the silver platters there rattling, and everyone flinches, though he’s practically harmless. Finally, Mrs. Pembroke succeeds in prying them apart and they leave, looking a little weary and worse for the wear, (he had more than a bit too much to drink and she spent the evening glaring at every girl he looked at). Bigley stumbles out shortly thereafter. I only hope his horse knows how to get home because no way is he sober enough to find it by himself.

I survey the room, leaning against the wall beside Lennox who’s slumped down just low enough to bump his shoulder against mine. The typical remains of a party are strewn about the room: the linens all askew, half-empty glasses resting on every flat surface and the candles burned down to dim flickers. I find myself watching Miles in the opposite corner, who’s sullenly pulled up a chair by the band. They’ve been playing for hours, but they’re still valiantly dragging bows across their instruments, despite the bags under their eyes.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” Lennox asks.

“Yeah.” I lift my head to meet his eyes. “Did you? I’m sorry you were on duty all night. Hope you’re at least getting a bonus for being my date.”

“I’d have done it for free.” He smiles, crooking a finger under my chin for a second. “But, yes, Monroe’s been very generous.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” My eyes flick across the room to the aforementioned president. His hair’s sticking up like he’s been running his hands through it all night, and his eyes are bright with champagne as he leans in close, almost too close, to Colonel Henderson, the handsome cavalry officer with the shy slouch and the reading glasses tucked in his pocket. Bass rests a hand on his shoulder, flashing one of those brilliant smiles that leaves you a little shell-shocked when you’re on the receiving end. I glance over at Miles and stifle a smile at the glower on his face.

Lennox follows my gaze between them and half-whispers, “What exactly are the consequences of making General Matheson jealous?”

I grin, nudging him with my shoulder. “You get gossipy when you’re drunk.” Colonel Henderson blushes at something Bass has said and chuckles, glancing at his hands. I can just imagine what Bass is thinking of doing with those hands. “Trust me, Miles will make him pay after you’ve all left,” I whisper, and Lennox coughs into his hand to cover a laugh.

We stand there a few minutes longer before Felix shuffles over with Julianne half-asleep on his shoulder and makes their excuses, her shoes dangling from his hand. She wakes up enough to hug me goodbye and wish me luck on the rest of my trip. I squeeze her tightly, kissing her cheek. I’m a little sad that I’ll likely never see her again unless ‘Mrs. Tollsbury’ manages to make a return trip to Philly someday. Laying my palm on her belly, I murmur goodbye to the baby too and she grins, squeezing my hand.

Colonel Henderson makes his way out with them, seemingly having extracted himself from Bass’ flirtations, and Bass dismisses the band. They pack up remarkably fast, probably exhausted and eager to get home themselves, and then even Lennox makes his way to the door. He hugs me tight before he leaves, and I find I’m incredibly grateful for him. Bass is lucky to have such a loyal, kind-hearted friend.

The three of us stand around a bit awkwardly until the door closes behind the band and then we all, finally, breathe a sigh of relief. The party’s over, the Hall is quiet, and a traitor’s been caught. (The last one makes me feel more disquieted than relieved but at least it’s over.)

“I think you frightened that poor boy off with all your flirting,” I tell Bass as he’s cutting a slice from the mostly-demolished cake.

“Mm, if I were Miles, he’d have dropped trou without thinking twice.”

“Fuck you,” Miles mumbles into his glass, grabbing me as I walk past him. I slide onto his lap, my dress inching up my thighs as I rest my forehead against his.

“I didn’t get to dance with you,” I murmur even as he’s catching my lips in a deep, wet, whiskey sort of kiss. His arms come up around me, glass dangling from one hand at the small of my back and the other sliding down over my ass. When we finally break for air, I’m panting and breathless.

“I don’t dance.”

“Now I _know_ that’s not true,” I protest, darting a look at Bass. He’s got a hand cupped between his legs, watching us, and a mouthful of cake. A smile tugs at my lips and I push myself up to standing, grabbing Miles’ hand. Pulling him up with me, I pass his whiskey over to Bass and drag him onto the empty dance floor.

Miles whines but wraps his arms around me anyway. “There’s no music.”

“Who needs music?” I sway in his arms, resting my head on his chest. It’s a little sentimental maybe, but when he gives in and relaxes against me, I can’t help feeling safe and secure. Mostly, it’s the champagne, but some part of me is happy tonight. I was scared earlier, scared of being myself again, of holding up a conversation and making small talk and being a part of the world, even just for a few hours.

But meeting the people close to these two, I feel more like a whole piece of this relationship. More like a partner and less like a secret. It’s a delusion, of course, I know that. But Miles’ heartbeat is soft and rhythmic under my cheek, and Bass is practically making love to that cake over there. It feels right, if not exactly normal.

“You were reckless tonight,” Miles rumbles in my ear all of a sudden, and I tip my head back to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“With the Lieutenant Silver thing. You could have gotten hurt. But, uh,” Miles frowns grimly even as he’s sliding his hands down to squeeze my ass through the soft, satin dress, “can’t say I wasn’t impressed. If those cartridges had made it out to the Annapolis rebels, well, a lot of good men would have died. So thanks.”

“It was kind of fun playing spy,” I admit with a mild smirk, fingers curling in his uniform, but his serious brown eyes quell my enthusiasm. “Besides, you wouldn’t have let anything happen to me.”

“That’s a lot of confidence in a man who’s got traitors in his own cadre,” he mutters but before the words have even left his mouth, he hugs me tighter against him and ducks to brush a kiss over my forehead. “But no, I won’t let anything happen to you. If Silver’d made you, I’d have killed him before he could do anything about it.”

That turns my stomach a little, the thought of Miles killing for me, but Bass suddenly kicks his legs, table linens swinging as he shoves another bite in his mouth. “Are we gonna get to you two making me pay for my philandering at any point here? ‘Cause if not, I’m goin’ to bed.”

I bury my head in Miles’ chest, shoulders shaking with laughter at the welcome distraction from this train of thought, and I can practically feel him roll his eyes above me. “We ought to just let you go to bed hard,” he growls but I can already sense him stirring against my stomach.

Pulling out of his arms, I grin at Bass and make my way over to him, Miles trailing along behind me by our fingertips. Bass spreads his legs, and I step between them as Miles starts to strip out of his uniform followed by the distinctive sounds of a wool jacket and belt hitting the hardwood behind us. Bass sets his cake aside and tugs me in close, parting my lips with his tongue. He works the pins out of my hair, letting them fall to the floor with tiny pings and massages the back of my neck with his long fingers. I slowly unbuckle his belt, savoring his lemon taste, dulled by the sugary numbness of frosted cake.

I slide my arms up around his neck, and he scoots to the edge of the table, licking into my mouth. I feel Miles come up behind me in his undershirt, his hands settling on my hips and his five o’clock shadow scraping my cheek. His greased hair brushes my temple, and I lean back into him, Bass’ curls twining around my fingers.

Miles draws a hand up my back, goosebumps trailing beneath the satin along my skin, and unzips me. Cool air hits my bare back, and I shiver as Miles peels the dress down to my waist and sets to work on my bra while I finish tugging Bass’ pants open.

Bass pauses to yank off his jacket and then he’s palming my now-exposed breasts, a distracted glint in his eyes. Miles flings my bra so it lands carelessly over one of the music stands. Tweaking a nipple between his fingers, Bass reaches over with his free hand to swipe a bite of cake onto his fork. He lifts it to my lips with an arched eyebrow and I smirk, taking the bite in my mouth without breaking eye contact.

The tines press against my tongue, a metallic tang underneath the overpowering sugar. I play it up for him a little, though we both know I’m just teasing him, my eyelashes fluttering and a tiny moan escaping me as Miles pushes my dress to the floor. Bass grins in appreciation, pulling the fork away and swiping a bit of frosting from my lip with his thumb. I plant my hands on his thighs and step out of the dress, kicking it aside so I’m trapped between them in my heels, panties and pearls.

I probably look like a prostitute but I feel sort of powerful. Bass settles both hands on my shoulders and draws me in close for a kiss. He’s always like that: can’t keep his hands or his mouth off you once you get him started. I melt into him, feeling hazy on champagne, and arch my back when Miles skims his thumbs down my spine before pulling away to unzip his pants. Bass and I kiss leisurely, sucking sugar and alcohol off each other until Miles returns.

The room is quiet but for the sound of heavy breathing, a wild contrast to the loud party of a few hours ago. Miles slides his hands up under me, wide, calloused palms dragging over my ribcage and the sensitive curve of my breasts. I moan into Bass’ mouth, and he nudges my hips back into Miles’.

Miles hooks his fingers in my panties and pushes them down so I have to kick them off, along with my heels, finally. I balance my hands on either side of Bass on the table even as he’s running the backs of his fingers between my legs, knuckles brushing my clit purposefully. Miles kicks my feet apart with one of his, and I push up on my tiptoes so he can slide inside me. He’s hot and hard and he keeps pushing until he’s buried flush in me, forehead resting against my shoulder blade.

I lift my eyes to Bass and find him looking half-delirious, staring at us with hooded eyes. I take pity on him, tugging down the cotton of his boxers to pull out his hard, pink cock. God, he’s a sight: they both always are. He shudders under my touch and I feel Miles lift his head to watch, as he’s inching in and out of me.

I lift a hand over my shoulder and turn my palm up to Miles’ lips. I don’t want to break the heavy silence; luckily, he seems to get it because he turns his head and licks my palm from wrist to fingertip until it’s wet with his saliva. I shudder a little, fluttering around him as I drop my hand to Bass’ cock and smear Miles’ spit over his length. He lurches off the table, pressing closer to me so he’s perched on the very edge, his legs spread obscenely around us.

Miles hums approvingly against my throat, sucking my earlobe between his teeth and squeezing my breast in one hand as he slides the other down my sternum and the soft slope of my stomach. Just as I think he’s going to drag his fingers into my curls, he goes for Bass instead, his massive hand enveloping mine and clenching down on Bass’ surely aching cock.

Bass groans aloud, threading one hand into his hair, chin pointed up. We work him up together for long, agonizing minutes, tugging probably just a little too hard on Bass. Miles’ hand squeezes around mine until Bass whines an incoherent protest. Nudging my wrist with his thumb, Miles sucks my earlobe between his teeth, and when he drops his hand aside abruptly, I follow suit, well aware he wants to let Bass suffer a bit tonight. Bass gasps, muttering a long list of unsavory titles at Miles, his cock jutting up between us. A bead of sweat drips down my spine and I strain to hear the slippery quiet of my body parting around Miles over the blood rushing in my head.

Miles is intense, always is, and he tips my head back for a kiss. It puts an awkward strain on my neck but the wet insistence of his tongue in my mouth makes me tighten around the hard penis inside me, back arched. Bass startles me out of it with one hand flailing at me until he lands on my wrist, dragging my hand back to his cock. I let my fingers rest on him, a smirk tugging at my lips as he twists his free hand in the strands of pearls around my neck and jerks hard. His knuckles dig into my pulse point, and he gives a muffled groan that makes me feel awash with power for a moment.

I stare into his familiar blue eyes, nearly black in agony, and focus on the feel of Miles slamming into me again and again, fingertips just barely brushing the taut skin of Bass’ penis. My bare toes curl against the hardwood and I think I’m moaning; Bass has got his fingers between my legs all of a sudden, and he’s sliding around the base of Miles’ cock and digging into my clit, no mercy, until my knees all but buckle under me. I don’t know how he has the presence of mind to get me off when he’s clearly so wrecked himself but, then, maybe Bass realizes _he_ won’t be allowed to come until we both have.

I feel Miles pull out halfway through my orgasm, unable to take it anymore, and come on the backs of my thighs. My hand lays limp on Bass’ thigh, and Miles brushes it out of the way, finally taking pity on Bass. He pumps Bass a few times until he comes across my stomach and breasts, slamming a fist down onto the table and, I think, into the cake. When I finally lift my head, Miles is sucking frosting off Bass’ long, graceful fingers. We’re all going to be a sticky mess and by morning I’ll care, but right now, I really don’t.

Miles spreads both their jackets out on the floor and we curl up there, the boys finally stripped out of the rest of their clothes. Bass drags a thick, dripping candle and a bowl of strawberries down with us; we lay on the floor, our fingers and lips stained red, and the candlelight flickering over the varying lines of our bodies until the sky is just a few shades lighter out the windows.

I drift off at some point, my head on Miles’ shoulder and an arm resting across Bass’ chest. I don’t know how much longer they linger on the floor with me between them, but eventually I’m dimly aware of being carried up the stairs, my nose pressed into a shirt that smells like river and whiskey, so it must be Miles. He tucks me into bed, kisses my forehead and then a few moments later, the door closes behind him with a soft click.

It was a good night.


	11. Woman's Comb

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: June 2, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: Kendra Chang  
Field Coordinates:  


  *       Latitude: 39.948876
  *       Longitude: -75.150024
  *       Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Woman’s Comb  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Handheld tortoiseshell haircomb  
Location: 2E[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Chipped handle, three broken tines

 **Transcript of Written Document:** N/A

 

**Fall 2020: Rachel**

There’s a low fire crackling in the fireplace and a hurricane lamp lit on the mantel, flooding my room in warm, amber light. It’s dusk and the trees swish outside my window, the Hall quiet and calm this evening. Bass slouches behind me in the hammered tin tub, warm water lapping gently at my breasts as he shifts, tugging me closer.

I give a soft sigh, leaning into him and sliding my fingers over the rounded metal. He reaches across to the small table beside us and retrieves my comb, sweeping wet hair off my shoulder. I focus on the hard, muscular lines of him under me, our bodies twisted together beneath the surface of the water and one of my feet resting up on the far edge of the tub.

Bass starts at the ends of my hair, gently working through mild tangles before moving higher. I used to be surprised by the little things he understands about living with a woman but not anymore. I don’t know whether I have his sisters to thank or perhaps some ex-girlfriend, though I don’t remember Bass ever having anyone serious in his life except Miles. He tugs a bit more firmly on one knot and I sink against him, shoulders uncoiling in pleasure. My hand slips under the water, coming to rest on his narrow thigh, the other still braced on the tub, and I can practically feel him grin. Well, let him. He all but has me purring and he knows it. 

“Miles is late,” he murmurs finally. “Again.” 

“Well maybe we’ll just have to remind him why it’s a good idea to be on time.” I tip my head back as he works the comb through the thicker hair at my crown. 

Reaching his arms around me, Bass trails the tip of a tine down my throat, feather-light. “Mm, and how would you go about doing that, exactly?” 

I think for a moment, eyes drifting shut. The curve of his cock is soft but promising in the small of my back. “Maybe I’ll kneel for him, let him come in my mouth. Miles likes that.” 

Bass sniffs, pulling slightly away and sinking back against the tub. I twist around to look at him over my shoulder and slide my fingertips up his firm, wet chest. Tapping the comb against the edge of the tub, he asks, “What’s so special about that? I do it for him all the time.” 

“Mm, but _I_ don’t.” My eyebrow lifts of its own accord and I smirk at him, tracing his collarbone. “What would you do for him?” 

Bass pauses, watching my face. That used to be unnerving, the way he stares through me. “You’re too gentle with him,” he says finally. “Miles likes to hurt a little. Maybe I’ll just cram a finger up inside him and make him say my name over and over.” 

I think I control my blush but he just looks so serious about it, so calm. I swallow hard, letting my hand splash gently back into the water. There’s so much history between them, even after a year in their bed, sometimes I realize I don’t know them at all. 

The door creaks open and when I glance up, Miles is standing there with an arched eyebrow, his uniform hanging open. “What’s this then?” 

Under his stare, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of Bass half-hard under me and my nipples pink and pebbled just below the clear water. “Hey,” I murmur, watching Miles close the door behind him and toss his jacket on the bed. “Where’ve you been?” 

“Had to deal with an incident in the stables.” He tugs his boots off, dropping them to the hardwood with a thunk, and pads across the room. Leaning his hands on the edge of the tub, Miles bends down to kiss me. I stretch up to him, mouth open and tongue teasing his bottom lip, and he claims me like he always does. 

Bass smooths a hand up my back, thumb skipping over the ridges of my spine, but I’m hardly paying him any attention. Not with Miles’ mouth slanted over mine and the tip of his tongue dangerously tracing my teeth. When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing heavily and he rests his cheek against mine, presumably glancing at Bass over my shoulder.

They each mutter their hellos and plant sloppy kisses on each other, tongues flicking into their mouths carelessly. By the time I settle back against Bass’ hard chest, Miles is squatting beside the tub and Bass has an arm hooked around the back of his neck, their lips slicked with spit and pink tongues visible. 

They’re more than a little addictive to watch and I press my thighs together, even dipping fingers between my legs under the water. Still, there’s a rivalry between Bass and I over Miles that is equally hard to resist and I can’t help lifting a wet hand to run through those dark waves. 

Miles pulls back from Bass’ kiss and I feel the tiniest surge of victory. He eyes the tortoiseshell comb dangling from Bass’ hand. “What exactly were you two up to in here?” 

“Mm, just waiting for you,” Bass assures him, tossing the comb aside and gesturing to Miles. “Come on, what are we supposed to do with you fully dressed?” 

Miles pushes up to his feet, stripping off his undershirt. He loosens his belt, dumping his clothes in a pile on my floor while we watch, Bass' arm around my shoulder and his lips soft and dry on my neck. 

Miles walks barefoot across the room, eyeing us in our freshly bathed debauchery. "Why do you two look so satisfied already? I haven't done anything yet." 

Bass chuckles in my ear and my eyes crinkle at the edges. "Mm, we've decided tonight isn't about you doing anything," I murmur, sliding my fingers between Bass' on the edge of the tub. 

Miles' eyebrow shoots up. "Should I be worried?" 

"You should prepare yourself. Maybe get a drink of water," Bass jokes, turning his hand under mine and squeezing. As if we're in this together, rather than competing, though I know very well he would keep Miles all to himself given the chance. 

Planting a fist on Miles’ hip, dark fur trailing down his chest to the well-formed cock we both take such pleasure in, he frees my hand from Bass and rubs his thumb over my knuckles. "So what exactly is on the menu then?" 

I drag him closer, leaning up out of the tub and letting him bend down to find my lips, his free hand framing my jaw. Just having him naked in front of me, his kiss is already sweeter and more promising. I shift up onto my knees, forcing Bass to rearrange himself in the relatively small tub as I press against the cool metal and the warm, sinewy fur of Miles' thighs. He groans quietly, drawing back from my lips and glancing over at Bass. Well, that won't do. 

I smirk up at him, drawing my fingertips over his quickly hardening cock and pressing my lips into the hollow indent of his hip. Miles shudders above me, straightening, and I don't bother to restrain my grin. There is something inherently satisfying about pleasing Miles: he's a very attentive and appreciative recipient. His hand comes to rest on the back of my head and I feel him relax minutely, my lips working closer and closer to his cock. It's not teasing; I'm going to follow through, of course. But he tightens his hand on me in anticipation and I shiver a little, knowing how much he wants to be in my mouth, _now_. 

I nuzzle into the dark, wiry hair between his legs, bracing one hand at his hip and the other on the tub. He's hard now and panting, though I can hear him trying to mask it behind clenched teeth. Turning slightly, I wet my lips and press a delicate kiss to his cock. Miles groans impatiently but doesn't push for more, just waits, tense, while I kiss down his length. Reaching the blunt tip, I swipe my tongue over it, parting my lips around him for a brief, probably agonizing moment. 

Splashing my hand in the water without pulling away, I wrap my wet fingers around the base of his cock and slide my mouth up to meet them. Miles sweeps my soaking wet hair off my shoulder with shaking hands, gathering it into a loose ponytail in his fist. Knowing Miles, it will be a tangled mess when he's finished, and I'll have to comb it out all over again. Sucking lightly on him, I stroke my tongue against the underside of his cock, tracing familiar veins and ridges. 

My eyes drift shut and I sink into it, cheeks hollowing. My knees ache a bit from the hard metal surface of the tub and I realize I'm cold, gooseflesh forming on my arms and breasts, nipples hardened. The fireplace is still toasty but we've been sitting in this cooling water for probably too long. It doesn't seem to bother Bass, who I can hear shifting behind me, no doubt jerking off underwater to the sight of us. The cold and the discomfort are worth it though for the way Miles trembles under my mouth. 

He shudders suddenly, tugging on my makeshift ponytail, cold water dripping off the ends of my hair and down my back. I know very well he's trying to tell me to pull off, but I only suck him a little deeper into my mouth. Miles catches on slowly and his grip tightens on my hair. Bass splashes water out onto the rug and earns himself a deep, strained chuckle from above me. 

"You better save some for me," Miles rumbles to Bass, even as his hips jerk. "Uhh, s-sorry, Rach-" 

Miles comes hard, moaning loudly and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying not to choke, not only because it would be vastly unpleasant but because Miles would feel inexplicably guilty and that is not the point. (I'm not sure what the point _is_ , exactly, other than this unhealthy competition with Bass, but I find myself pressing my thighs together, aroused by his arousal.) 

I pull back finally, trying not to wrinkle my nose as I swallow and draw in a deep, fresh breath. Miles stops me just as I’m lifting a hand to wipe my mouth, his large, calloused hand slapping around my forearm and dragging me up to my feet. I slip in the metal tub but he quickly wraps me in his arms, fumbling off to his left for a soft towel and catching my lips in a deep, searching kiss. I buckle against him, breasts crushed to his chest and let my mouth fall open under his tongue as he sucks every bit of his come off me. 

"Uhh, Rachel," he mumbles into my mouth, winding the towel around my shivering body even as I hook my arms behind his neck. "Thanks," he manages finally, resting his forehead on mine, his cheeks just slightly pink. 

I smile indulgently and tip my head back for a softer, sweeter kiss, but Bass is getting to his feet behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. 

"My turn," he whispers in my ear, smirking. “You might have gotten him off but I’m gonna make him beg.” 

Miles lifts an eyebrow pointedly over my shoulder, but doesn’t say anything, just hauls me up out of the bath. He plants his lips across my jaw, carrying me over to the bed with his arms wrapped around my waist and my feet dripping on the rug. Dumping me a bit unceremoniously on the bed, Miles crawls up over me so the towel gets tangled between us. He kisses down to my collarbone, and I turn my head, arms sprawled above me as I watch Bass drying off. He’s standing expectantly by the tub, toweling his curly hair, water dripping off sculpted muscles and down his hard cock. 

He runs the towel over his chest, eyeing Miles’ naked ass perched over the edge of the bed as he buries his head in my breasts. I smirk at Bass, relishing the broad, rough hands on my ribcage and the hot, damp breath on my skin. Bass can jerk himself all he likes; it’s clear Miles has already reached the face-plant stage of post-sex. He burrows deeper against me, worrying the tender skin of my breast with his lips, and I stop thinking about Bass. My eyes drift shut and I’m just about relaxed enough to let Miles fall asleep right where he is, but suddenly Miles’ nose is sliding down between my breasts, a trail of Indian burn in its wake. I protest at the realization that it’s Bass pulling Miles by the calves down my body. 

Miles and I both loudly whine our objections, but they go unheard. “Oh you’ve had your fun,” Bass directs at me, voice dry even as Miles flops off the edge of the bed onto him. 

I roll onto my stomach, untangling the towel from myself and tossing it off behind me, my hands folded under my chin. Staring down at them, Miles sprawled on Bass where they fell, long limbs tangled in all directions, I lift my feet up. My ankles cross behind me as I take in the ever-curious sight of their bodies twisted around each other.

Combing the fur of Miles’ stomach with his fingers, Bass noisily sucks on Miles’ earlobe apparently for my benefit, since his blue eyes have drifted up to mine. I meet his gaze, lips pressed into a thin line as I’m reminded this is a competition, as much as watching them tends to turn me on. As Bass’ elegant fingers migrate further into the nest of hair between his legs, Miles lolls his head, forehead thunking on the hardwood over Bass’ shoulder. “Noo, don’t touch it!” he complains, and I can’t help smirking at how pathetic they both always are after they’ve come.

Bass laughs and rolls out from under Miles so he lands smack on the floor on his stomach. Pinning his arms, Bass perches atop his back like he’d love to plant a flag there. Miles cranes his neck to look back at Bass, catching my eye above their heads for a moment. I smirk, waving my fingers at him; he rolls his eyes back to Bass, surprisingly feisty, (if silent), for his current position. 

“Wasn’t planning on touching it. Have something else in mind.” Bass dips a graceful finger in his mouth, sucking far longer than required to wet it. When he pulls it back out, it’s glistening with saliva and my mouth waters. Pushing up onto an elbow, I slide my other hand down between my legs, spreading myself open and toying with my clit with a fingertip. 

“Hm?” Bass inquires, holding up his wet finger. 

“Uh,” Miles groans acquiescence and squeezes his eyes shut in preparation. 

When Bass reaches around behind to push it in between Miles’ cheeks, Miles balls his fists on the floor and exhales, “Fuuuck!” 

Bass does pause at that, presumably letting Miles stretch around his finger. Bass sinks in until his second knuckle disappears and I plunge my own finger into myself at the same time, just to the knuckle, and it’s frustratingly not enough. I clamp down on it, brow knit in concentration to the point Bass would probably laugh at me if he were to look up. Finally Miles gives an almost silent, “ _Oh_.” His muscles uncoil, shoulders relaxing and I imagine his dark eyelashes are squeezed together. 

“I hit it?” Bass asks through a smile, reaching up to ruffle Miles’ hair with his other hand. 

“Mm,” Miles confirms. 

“Well that’s too bad, because I promised Rachel I’d make you beg,” Bass announces. I’d been so absorbed in watching them and in the faint penetration of my finger, I almost forgot about that. It’s odd to even consider Miles that compliant in bed, though I suppose, the most focused and analytical of us want to give in to someone now and then. Bass sweeps his finger out in one long stroke, and Miles makes a pathetic little whimper, banging his fist on the floor. 

I draw my finger out too, joining Miles in his tortured state though I have far more control over it, and circle warm wetness around my clit. My eyes drift half-shut for a moment and I sink back down onto the bed, chin on my wrist and legs spread wide on the bed. 

Bass slides off Miles’ back and knees apart his legs, positioning himself between them. “Want more? Say my name.” Bass licks the palm of his clean hand and primes his cock. Then, he leans casually forward, his elbow jammed into the small of Miles’ back. 

Miles raises his arm grandiosely in the air to give Bass the finger.

Bass shakes his head, glancing up to meet my eyes and brushing away Miles’ arm dismissively. “Just wait and see: he won’t be able to resist me,” he assures me, gaze just barely skimming down to my mostly-hidden hand. “That attitude, Miles? You’ll pay for it.” He casually backhands Miles’ ass with an audible _smack_. “Gonna have to beg.” 

Miles buries his face in the crook of his arm. “Jmuff do iff Bass,” he mumbles, muffled. 

Bass strokes the backs of his fingers over the curve of the bare ass in front of him, across the now slightly pink skin and down the slope of Miles’ thigh. “Just do it… _who_?” 

“Smass.” 

“ _Who_?” Bass booms, whacking the other cheek, harder this time, so I can really hear the crack of skin on skin. A gush of arousal spreads between my legs and I inch up a little higher on my knees, drawing shallower breaths. 

Miles groans into his arm, reaching out to fist the bedskirt, nearly ripping it off the frame. “Put your _fucking_ dick in my ass, Sebastian!” 

“Hmmm…” Bass trails his fingers up Miles’ back and I feel a twinge of jealousy, sort of wanting to be down there with them, touching Miles, feeling his body seize and relax and shudder under me. 

“SEBASTIAN!” 

“All right, all right.” Bass bends forward to kiss Miles’ left buttcheek and then slicks up his head a little more carefully, lining up and pushing in. The hard, pink line of cock starts to disappear in Miles, who moans and squirms beneath him as I slide two fingers inside myself, curving up into my walls. Bass settles all the way in, hands braced on Miles’ back, and gazes up at me with a triumphant glint in his eye. Miles turns his head, resting his cheek on the floor, and I can just see his features pinch in pleasure as Bass starts rolling his hips.

“Good?” he inquires. Miles mumbles a confirmation without opening his eyes. I’m always impressed how consistent Bass is about making sure Miles is comfortable and safe, even in those moments where he isn’t in control. It’s not just about consent; it’s about trust. 

Shoving my other hand between myself and the bed, I continue to watch them with one eye but ride my fingers, hips thrusting against the mattress. It’s not exactly like being slammed into the way Miles is experiencing right now, but it sets me to moaning anyway, muffled in the bedspread. 

Bass starts grinding him hard enough that Miles bunches his fists again, knuckles turning white. Bass pushes his forehead into Miles’ back, eyes squeezed shut, really concentrating; he must be getting close if he’s willing to give up crowing at me in assumed victory. 

Then explosively, he moans and shivers, coming deep out of sight. Miles moans with him, as Bass collapses completely with a gentle, “ _Fuck_.” He rests there, smoothing the skin of Miles’ bum. Then Bass peeks his eyes open at me again and says, “You have no idea how good it feels in here.” 

I could throw him a snappy comeback, but I’m too close to my own release to really care about banter with Bass. Rolling onto my back, I twist my fingers inside myself, eyes slamming shut. I’m barely aware of my own moans, knees splayed open and head tipped back, but after some shuffling, the bed dips beside me and I can feel Miles’ warm, naked body curl at my side. He doesn’t try to help, just plants himself at my side and sucks my pink nipple into his mouth. 

My back arches and with a couple of particularly harsh swipes at my clit, I’m coming, muscles tense, almost cramping, and toes pointed into the bed. When my chest finally stops heaving, my body relaxing a fraction, I curl up against Miles, exhausted. He slides one hand down to cover mine, still lying limply in my curls and I nestle into the curve of his neck. Bass has blown out the candles and moved up onto the bed behind Miles, kneading at his bare back.

“God, you two are beautiful together,” I mumble without thinking about the game between Bass and I. It’s not like me to trip up, to forget what this is, but occasionally when I’m wrapped in Miles’ arms, I _want_ to forget. He tangles his fingers in my hair, squeezing me tighter for a moment, like he appreciates the confirmation. I get the sense Miles has always been self-conscious about how he and Bass look, their jagged angles banging into each other. 

I peek my eyes open at Bass, over Miles’ shoulder, some tiny part of me hoping he’ll say something like, “So are you two,” but I’m not naive enough to think that’s the case. Bass sees a rival when he looks at me; he could never appreciate Miles and I the way I appreciate the two of them. 

Instead, he only kisses the back of Miles’ neck and asks in a deep, rumbling voice he reserves for after sex, “So are you going to be on time from now on?” 

Oblivious to our mind games, Miles flips over to face him, barking an incredulous, “ _That’s_ what this was about? Like we need to _schedule_ sex.” 

Bass shrugs as I slide my hands over the warm sinews of Miles’ back. “You seemed to enjoy our persuasive arguments.” 

“Hey, if you two are going to play stupid, competitive games, I might as well get to double dip.” Well, maybe not so oblivious. 

Chuckling, Bass kisses Miles’ forehead and drapes his arm over Miles’ waist, a poorly devised invitation for me to take his hand. I pull the sheet up over us and thread my fingers through Bass’; after all, our competitions don’t extend to sleeping, and we both won Miles tonight. 

I fall asleep there, pressed up against Miles’ back, my nerves still humming with leftover energy. An hour or two passes, I think, before something wakes me, though it’s so dark out, it’s hard to tell. I blink in the dim room, shifting against Miles. My eyes slowly focus on Morella, curled up at the end of the bed, before I make out the sounds of easy, open-mouthed kissing. Rolling casually onto my stomach, I hazard a peek at them and have to suppress a sleepy smile: Miles’ big hands settle on Bass’ jaw and they sink into each other, making out in that harried way men get when they’re rubbing on each other and touching bare skin, even when they aren’t planning on fucking. 

I’m just about to fall back asleep, lulled by their domesticity, when I hear it. Bass is whispering, his faint stubble scraping against Miles’, but it’s clearly, “Love you.” 

Pausing, my eyes wide open in the dark, I strain to hear. Miles buries his head in Bass’ shoulder, arms shifting up around him, and he mumbles thickly, “Love you too, baby.” 

I freeze. Miles has never told me he loves me, though at varying points in our relationship, I’ve known he did. To be honest, I always thought he was incapable of saying it. 

Apparently this round of the competition does have a clear winner. 

There’s a stab of heartache that runs through my nerves, like my arms have fallen asleep, and I lie awake the rest of the night.


	12. Monroe Militia Uniform Jacket

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: July 28, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:  


  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact: _ Monroe Militia Uniform Jacket_  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Hunter green wool double-breasted jacket with lapels and collar, brown leather details on shoulders and cuffs. Nothing to indicate original owner.  
Location: 2B[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Missing at least four buttons, scorch marks on left arm, right shoulder torn at seam, holes near back hem, possibly from debris

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
N/A

 **Fall 2019: Miles**

The curtain billows around me and Rachel in the breeze, and I have to gather it back behind us, upsetting her recline on my chest in the window seat for a second. With my nose a little closer to the open window, I breathe in my city in autumn - crushed leaves, horse dung, straw - as I reposition my hand on her ribcage beneath the underwire of her bra. She’s been wrapped in my jacket since I noticed her shiver, while Bass is leisurely stretched out across from us, his lean, handsome foot resting beside my thigh. I reach down to give it a squeeze with my free hand, as I watch the sun start to sink down the horizon. I must look really fucking content, because Rachel gazes up at me, elegant neck muscles working, and laughs. 

“What’s got you so happy?” she asks, as I dig my calloused knuckle into the knot in Bass’ arch. He stretches out his toes in pleasure, his blonde eyelashes fluttering.

I think over what _does_ have me so happy: Them, of course. I finally get to have them together, after nearly a decade of Sophie’s fucking Choice. But I say, “Philly in the fall,” because I can’t put to words what it means to me to have both of them tangled up in my legs, wasting a lazy evening. 

“Mmm,” Bass sighs agreement (or maybe I just hit a good spot on his arch). Doesn’t matter - the man is so damn fine, I have to lift up his foot and kiss the delicate bones of his instep. Lemon and spice, just like the rest of him. I think I might have a thing for feet. 

“Oh you two and your city,” Rachel chuckles, and there might be a hint of edge to her voice, so I flick up my thumb toward her nipple, buried under militia jacket, cotton t-shirt, and bra. Way too many obstructions, but the poor girl is cold, so I cup her breast instead and grunt my approval at my favorite squish. 

“What?” Bass’ brilliant blue eyes crack open. “Don’t like Philly?” 

“No, it _is_ beautiful. Even from up here,” she scolds briefly, and I cringe, letting my hand slide back down to her stomach. Our princess in a tower. It is so wrong, I can’t even go there. “So boys, how did you sack this fine city? How did the militia and the mighty Monroe Republic first come into being? I want to know it all.” It’s not the friendliest tone, though she doesn’t seem as confrontational as before- well, as before Halloween. 

She settles back into me for story time, gathering her knees tightly against her body. I extract my hand from her limbs and play with a strand of her golden hair. I’m sort of guessing the prickliness is because she has her period… well the prickliness _and_ she seems like she just can’t get comfortable between my legs, shifting now and then to rub her back and her stomach. 

“Well, those are two separate questions, Rach - how we took Philly and how that arrogant bastard over there came to name a militia and a whole country after himself.”

“Hey!” Bass objects immediately. “You’re the one who suggested we name them after me!” 

I snort. “That’s not _exactly_ how it happened.” I mean, yeah, I _did_ , but Bass also probably wouldn’t have objected to the suggestion of erecting a marble statue of him in the city square. I… maybe wouldn’t object to looking at it either? 

“So tell me the stories. _Both_ of them,” Rachel disturbs my fantasy of a giant Bass statue with a perfect little flaccid dick. Why are the dicks always so small on those things? I’d make sure Bass’ was true to life. “Two hicks from Jasper, Indiana, one a sullen-faced, self-defeating Marine sergeant, the other a self-aggrandizing Marine sergeant with a Cupie-doll head of curls, set off after the Blackout …” Rachel is prompting us, and when I finally awaken to what she’s saying, I join Bass in grousing. 

Bass mutters, “Well at least I get to have the hair of a terrifying plastic doll. Thanks a lot.”

We both sort of shuffle around and delay by looking out the window. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as me - we’ve never really paused to reflect on how it all happened. It just _happened_ … out of chaos and sleepless nights and near-starvation and battle upon battle. I get a little tired just trying to think about where to begin. So I start in the middle - safer there. 

“Well, we started small, just fighting to stay alive, you know? And we already had some people around who were loyal and willing to fight, like Jeremy and Tom Neville-” 

“Hah! Neville,” Bass scoffs. Neither of us like the bastard. He’s stinks of filthy ambition.

“Well… loyal _enough_ ,” I correct. “And we’d win, you know - we’d set out to fight, and we’d actually defeat the other guys. And then _this_ fool would go around making promises to people that if they just stuck with Matheson and Monroe, they’d be safe and fed. I started calling him president, he seemed to enjoy listening to himself talk so much.” 

Bass digs his toe into my rib cage, and I silently _ow_ and swat him aside. Then I snatch his foot back and squeeze it tight. Why’s he sitting so far away from us? 

Rachel asks, “And how did you determine that _your_ militia was the one worth following?” Her blue eyes are trained on Bass, so I figure I’m off the hook. But Bass drops his gaze and leaves it to me. Ugh. Of course he does.

“Well we weren’t baby killers and rapists.” I try to stop my brain from adding, _At least not for the most part._ I work to steer my thoughts away from the refugee camp. “So… that made us better than anyone else around. Plus, again, we could _win_. That made us different.” 

Bass picks up the story then, and I’m immensely relieved. “We actually had no idea what was happening at the time, that, like, clan warfare had broken out all over the place, spawning this terrible resource war. But the more we traveled around, the more we saw the suffering. Everywhere people skinny as concentration camp victims; children half-eaten - no way to tell if they’d been killed for dinner or their carcasses had just proven an irresistible snack to some desperate passerby. So more and more, people volunteered to help us. I tried to tell Miles it was _his_ militia, since he loves telling people what to do-” 

“Huh! Not nearly as much as you!” The truth is neither of us like taking orders, though we did for ten long years. We like being in charge. On occasion, we will listen to each other, but not as often as you’d think. 

“But it was Miles who insisted on the Monroe Militia.” 

“It does have a nice ring,” I confirm, winding a swath of Rachel’s cornsilk around my finger. 

“And it honored my family,” Bass adds quickly enough that it sounds like we’ve rehearsed this.

“It’s true - my family sucks,” I finish our merged thought…. and then catch myself. “Er, sorry, Rachel. Not Ben,” I mumble apologetically, feeling guilty as hell, because _of course_ I meant Ben. 

She takes it well enough, extracting her hair from my fingers to glance at me briefly with eyes that have grown a shade darker in the setting sun. 

“And were you two together at the time?” she nods her chin at Bass. 

Rachel has a way of catching me off guard. “Wuh? Why d’ya ask?” 

Her lips curl into a smirk, and I start to worry. “I’m just wondering if the Republic was, you know, your love child?”

Bass half smiles at me, which I try to return but instead end up staring out the window at a woodpecker digging in the bark for a worm. I’m not sure why her question has burrowed under my skin, but it has, instantly, and it leads me right to the time period I’ve put in a box on a shelf, tagged _Do Not Open_ , because it hurts so bad I don’t think I’m capable of processing it. 

Everybody had a rough first year after the Blackout - I’m no different. Bass and I, after we went AWOL from base, searched desperately for Ben and Rachel, and though survival kept us together, it really strained us. We had to hunt and trap and figure out everything about living on our own with no Power. But for Bass, emotionally, I think he just couldn’t understand why he wasn’t enough for me, you know? He had his family _taken_ from him - at least mine was alive somewhere. I wasn’t even close to my brother, so why was I pushing so hard to find him? To Bass, the bottom line was always _her_ : I was looking to replace him with her. 

When we finally gave up looking, we fell in with a group to pool resources and curb the exhaustion of doing everything ourselves. After staying put for just a few months, it hit me how much I loved Bass. We had virtually nothing left; why wasn’t I just giving him everything? Who the fuck cared that we were two dudes? Nothing mattered anymore. I could hold his hand in public if I wanted, and if anyone dared to look at us funny, we could beat the shit out of them. After all, we were two of the toughest bullies around. 

A whole night I stayed up thinking about him until it was light enough to go and finally tell him. I started for his tent, when he met me halfway, flashing that gorgeous smile. I swear to God, I would have dropped to one knee for him, proposed marriage, swore allegiance, whatever he needed to hear as promise… but then he told me about her: Shelly. He was in love; I could see it all over his face - the first time I’d really seen him happy since his family died. I couldn’t take that from him. I’d had all the chances in the world, and I’d been too afraid to take them, like with Rachel but even worse because Bass had been there my whole life, waiting. 

And, of course, Shelly was a _woman_ , so he could finally have a family again. You wouldn’t believe the look on his face when he found out they were going to have a baby. I had to shut down a part of myself after that so I wouldn’t get bitter toward my best friend over his own damn happiness. I think I barely put three words together for eight months except to complain about how dangerous our stupid refugee camp was. Then, when Shelly and the baby passed and Bass lost it, I wasn’t even sure I knew him anymore. I _tried_ to be there for him, but I was afraid of what he’d become. 

So, the era Rachel’s asking about - our militia campaigns leading up to the founding? I think that’s when Bass and I fell back in love, learned to respect each other again. For the first time in our lives, we really lived up to our potentials, and we did it together. But it wasn’t until Philly that we made our peace with what had happened between us - how I’d hurt Bass with my Rachel-fixation over the years, how I’d rubbed it in his face after the Blackout, how he’d finally moved on from me, and how fate dumped him over the threshold of hell. It’s not like we talked or anything, but somehow the soiled years just fell away. 

It dawns on me that I’ve been nervously tapping on Rachel’s shoulder; she grabs my hand irritably to stay it. When I finally drag my eyes away from the near-darkness outside, I notice that Bass has just returned from lighting a lamp. He folds his legs under himself and picks at his tattoo. 

Rachel doesn’t press on the ‘is Philly your baby?’ thing, which is good because the topic of babies with Bass does not go well, but she does follow up, “So how did you _settle_ in Philadelphia?” 

Bass flicks away some dead skin by his M and rasps, “Well, the men were getting battle-weary - we all were. We needed a permanent place to set up defenses and supplies, stockpile the weapons we’d been accruing, a place for winter quarters. Miles, Jeremy, and I literally took out a map. We were twenty miles from Philadelphia, and I turned to Miles and said-” 

“City of brotherly love!” I chime in with a grin, though my chest is inexplicably constricted.

“Birthplace of the Declaration of Independence! Though Miles never remembers that. He slept through all of American history.” 

“Did not.” 

I must be scowling hard now, because Bass reassures me, “Aw Miles, I wouldn’t have built a Republic with a complete moron. You’re just a terrible student.” 

I pout a bit longer, until finally I have to admit, “Okay, that’s true.” 

Bass flashes white teeth in the dim light. “There was already a force hunkered down in the city, so we had to lay siege to it.” His face falls, and I know what he’s thinking - all the dead bodies stuck out in no man’s land for days, bloating, their eyes bulging, buttons popping off their shirts and the flies of their pants. By the time we flung them in mass graves, they liquified in our shovels. We, the survivors, had barely had any food for weeks. I was so skinny, my ribs looked ready to poke through my skin, and Bass had dark blue circles under his eyes. I reach for his foot at the memory, but it’s not there; instead I grab Rachel’s arm, tiny bird-bones under wool.

Bass forges valiantly on, “Once we had our base of operations though, the Republic just grew out of it naturally. We fought a few more campaigns to clean out our rivals - Trenton, the western campaign - but after that it was mostly just establishing boundaries. _Is_ , I should say.” 

Rachel stretches out her legs long and crosses her ankles on Bass’ thigh. Bass traces her big toe with his pointer. “Hell Miles, you remember our first night in the Hall? The furniture that hadn’t been pillaged was all cobwebby and dusty - place was empty as a ghost house. We curled up in front of that fire like a couple of stray dogs, while Jeremy kept watch outside the door.” 

I chuckle, “Yeah,” and bury my nose in Rachel’s fragrant hair, the chilly fall air finally raising gooseflesh beneath my longsleeve undershirt. I reach with one hand to close and latch the window with a thud, grateful to Bass for giving me a happy memory to think on - something to dull the rising, choking pain.

 _I’m stripping off my clothes, laying them out in front of the fire. Covered in blood and random bits of human hair and flesh, they need serious airing out - they need to be incinerated. I gather one of the blankets around me and sit naked in front of the crackling flames, letting my eyes relax as Bass goes through the same ritual a beat behind me. He lays his head in my lap, then, soft curls against my most sensitive skin._

_I trace his lips with a crusty finger. He’s grown a beard; we both have. Have barely had time to piss and shit, let alone shave. We’ve been too long at war._

_“So… Mr. President. What do you think of your new digs?” I ask. “Wait…” I lift my finger and cut one, loud and satisfying._

_Bass unleashes an unholy groan. “Man, I’ll kill you! I’m right here in your lap.”_

_“I don’t see you movin’ - only complainin’.”_

_“Yeah, well those rancid-ass beans we ate are getting to me too. I’d love to bang you right now and christen our new home properly, but I’ll be damned if I’m giving you access to my hiney.”_

_“Yep. Me neither. Scoot up, and I’ll toss you. It’ll be almost as good.”_

_Bass grins at that and obeys so that he’s kind of laid across my knees. I lick my hand, which tastes like dirt and metal (really shoulda washed that), and slide it down over his lean chest and abs, appreciating every bump and scar. “Mmm,” I groan. “Y’s’nice.”_

_Bass laughs, “What?”_

_“Shut up. I’ma fuck you.” I am flatline exhausted._

_“Okay.”_

_I extend my fingers through his coarse hair to silky dick and, adding more spit from my other hand, pull on him with rich, long strokes. I love the way he fits in my hand, like he was perfectly made for me - I give him an appreciative squeeze to let him know just that. Every now and then, I’ll slide my hands back up to his chest and trace his rippled muscles, the perky circles of nipple, before taking his taut cock back in hand. He wriggles in my lap with his eyes squeezed shut. Christ. We both fucking giggle. Absurd to think we’re playing at being the president and commanding general of a new country, and yet, here we are frolicking together in Independence Hall, our loyalest friend guarding the door against intruders._

_Bass presses his eyelids together so hard he gets this little set of wrinkles on his forehead, and then he comes, gasping my name. As it should be. His seed scatters over his smooth chest, flecking the grooves of his six pack. Lord, he’s a sight._

“And then what happened?” Rachel asks pointedly, scratching at a little stain on the sleeve of my jacket anddrawing me back to our conversation. 

I’m too deep in my own recollection to answer, but Bass matter-of-factly offers, “Well… sex. It is _us_ we’re talking about.” I redden as if Rachel can read my mind. 

“Yes, I figured,” she sighs. Stuffing her hands under the jacket, Rachel twists back to look at me. “Miles is poking me with a scandalously large boner.” 

“I am not!” I whine instantly, but I am. It really is protruding straight into her back. She edges away uncomfortably, as I frown. 

“Haha, aw Miles. You’re such a friggin’ horndog. You’re _still_ thinking about it, aren’t you? You have that glazed look in your eyes,” Bass teases. 

I wave him off, my cheeks still a little flush, but yeah, I’m thinking about it. Because the next thing that happened was I planted Bass beneath one of my hands and started licking it off him, my tongue tracing the underside of his peck, hunting bitter seed down the lines of his hipbones, following the little trail of blonde beneath his belly button. Mmmm. The only way to break in a new capital.

Bass is chuckling at me now and opens his arms up to Rachel. “Come over here where it's safe, honey,” he jokes, and she crawls away from me with a grimace, like she's not sure which of us is the more desirable pillow right now.

I fold my arms and glower, crossing my legs tightly over my stiff dick. Meanwhile, Bass tucks Rachel into his arms like he’s won the biggest stuffed animal at a carnival. She settles down between his legs and closes her eyes, exhaling through her nose with a tiny flair. I can’t say exactly what it does to me, seeing them together like that. I’m fucking uncomfortable - this stupid boner, the emotions she’s cracked open with her questions. 

“So when did you get the uniforms?” As she asks, she pulls my jacket tighter around her, arms crossing over her stomach. Bass drops his nose to her shoulder, inhaling me there, no doubt, and she burrows into him. Finally, Bass’ eyes trail up to me, like, _This is your domain, bud_. 

I sigh and pick the dirt out from under one of my nails. “Well, we didn’t start with the uniforms, we started with the brands.” I don’t know why I insist on being so fucking honest. This won’t end well. Maybe I just want her to yell at me - want both of them to - because that’s what I deserve. How can they get over what I’ve done to them? How long I made them suffer? How in her case, she’s still suffering? 

Sure enough, disgust storms her blues eyes, but she must immediately assume the brand was Bass’ brainchild, because she twists aroundto give him an accusing scowl. 

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Bass holds up his hands, before pulling her back against his chest. “That Judas,” he indicates me, “may never have gotten the tattoo we promised each other in childhood, but the M brands were _his_ idea.” 

The full weight of her glare is now bearing down upon yours truly. As it should be. 

Fine, I’ll bite, though she’ll never understand, and I almost don’t want her to. “Look, we needed some way to distinguish ourselves from the other militias. Some way of showing devotion to each other. Brothers-in-arms. We didn’t have a fucking seamstress back then… but we _did_ have a farrier who could forge us a brand. A soldier who was willing to commit by fire was a man we knew we could trust.”

As expected, Rachel is unmoved by my little speech. She huffs, stamping a foot to the floor, and starts to stand but Bass drags her back down. Glaring at him, she attempts to disentangle herself from Bass’ steely grasp. He wraps an arm around her waist and it takes me a second to realize they’re actually wrestling over a pen Bass has produced from the pocket of my jacket. She presses her lips into a thin line, trying unsuccessfully to snatch the pen away from him, but he manages to hold her arm down against the seat. 

“ _Bass!_ ” she protests, her struggles weakening as he scrawls something I can’t quite make out on her forearm, just like we would have done as boys. 

Bass grins, ducking his head to kiss the mark he’s made on her, before he leans in to whisper something no doubt filthy and tactless in her ear.

“You’re such a child,” she groans, swatting him with her free handas he displays his victory to me with glee: a black M written on her pale skin. I’m wracked with an inexplicable wave of rage that I don’t stop to sort out.

“Bass, you fucking jerk off! Don’t mark her up!” I bellow at him, swinging my legs down to stomp over and rip the pen from his grasp. Rachel puts a firm hand on my stomach and pushes me back with a grunt. I did accidentally get right up in her face, and I’m intimidating - I forget that. 

Now Bass is all huffy, because he was just goofing off, but he can tell I’m genuinely furious with him. I’m vaguely aware that I might be overreacting, but that doesn’t stop me from carrying on. 

“Miles, you dick, gimme back my pen!” Bass stands up to me as always. 

“It’s _my_ pen! You stole it from my jacket and wrote on Rachel like she’s your goddamn chalkboard-” 

“Now stop it, the both of you!” Rachel pushes us apart, since we’ve been inching over her to lock eyes. She stands up and tramps across the room to her bed, plopping down on it with a puff of irritation. She hooks her bare heels on the edge of the wood frame, glowering at us and looking miserable. 

I’m still not willing to let it go - squabbling being preferable to the misery threatening to settle in my chest - though Bass looks duly scolded, slumped in his corner. 

“He was treating you like property!” I snap at Rachel. 

“Oh, really? Like property? Well that definitely wouldn’t be fitting for a woman like me, now would it?” Rachel narrows her pretty blue eyes, looking like she wants to throw something at me. 

I scowl and shoot at Bass out of the corner of my mouth, “Pig.” 

“Hey fu-” Bass is about to return, suddenly electrified for more fight, when Rachel interrupts him, “ _Bass_ is the pig? You’re the sexist one, Miles.” 

“I’m… what?” I’m caught standing between them with my mouth hanging open. And finally I stop to ask myself how I’ve gotten us from pleasantly enjoying a fall evening to full-on domestic row. It is me, right? I _cause_ this. 

Bass mutters half to himself: “Well she’s right. You _are_ a sexist jackass.” 

“I am not!” I ball fists at my side and feel the muscles in my neck strain. They’re fucking ganging up on me, and I’m feeling cornered. 

“If you’re so even-handed with the ladies, Miles, then why are there no women in your militia?” Rachel asks with a slight sneer, like she’s been waiting weeks to bring this up again, her favorite gripe with my militia. 

“Because…” I look at Bass helplessly, and he shakes his head dismissively. “Women throw off camaraderie! They’re distracting. All the shit that was happening when the Marines were trying to integrate: women getting assaulted, men acting like assholes. Why subject women to that? And why put them in harm’s way? Bad enough to throw all your young men to the fire! Aw, come on, Bass. Back me up, here!” 

Bass dangles his fingers to the floor below the window seat and snags his jacket, pulling it up and onto his shoulders. “I disagree, man,” he finally says. 

I’m about to protest, when he puts up a hand. “All citizens of age should be able to fight for their country. It gets you buy in.” 

I glare at him. _Traitor_. I actually didn’t know Bass felt that way; he never said. I kind of figured, oh I don’t know, that Rachel was just arguing about it on principle all this time because she’s a chick.

Rachel must sense her advantage now, because she strikes the death blow, “So your own president is asking you to get citizen buy-in from the _half_ of your population that is female, and you won’t do it? Seems pretty stupid and sexist to me.” 

“Yeah, I hate you both.” I squeeze my arms together over my chest and gaze back at Bass, who is staring intently at the lamp. He has this shadow in his eyes, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking of his sisters. Hell, if those girls had been given the chance to live, they could have done anything. They were tough as nails. They could have been Marines or presidents or… _fuck_. 

Why does putting women in combat bother me so much? Am I afraid I’m going to be distracted by their boobs? That I’ll have to restrain myself from pissing behind every tree we come across? Or is it the thought of Rachel or even little Charlie hunkered down in a trench with exploding shells over their heads? It doesn’t matter. Whatever my issue is, if women want to serve, who the hell am I to get in their way? Rachel and Bass are right. I should listen to them from time to time. It might have saved us all a lot of trouble in the past. 

Bass has stood and is heading across to Rachel’s bed, when I catch the wool of his jacket. “Hey,” I frown at him. “Sorry. You too,” I nod over at Rachel, and they both look surprised. “You’re right, I guess. I don’t like it, but I don’t really know why and… I guess I’m being a bit of an ass. Lots of women saved my sorry butt in the Middle East in hospitals, in the field. We’ll enlist women if that’s what you want.” I’m looking straight into Bass’ eyes. 

He nods. “I think it’s right.” 

“Okay then. I’ll write the orders in the morning.” 

With me still holding onto Bass’ sleeve, we turn our heads toward Rachel. She’s still sitting on the end of the bed, bags under her eyes with the sleeve of my coat drawn up as she studies Bass’ makeshift ‘brand’ on her skin. 

Christ. I don’t like seeing that mark on her. It really bothers me. To distract myself, maybe to distract us all, I say, “Can we fuck now as my reward for being…” I look at Bass for help. 

“Suitably contrite?” he finishes my sentence with a little smile, his mood improving. 

Rachel unfolds her legs and climbs off the bed with a reluctant grimace, suddenly pushing us out the door with little, insistent hands. Apparently, she’s entirely done with our shit. “Nope. This potential enlistee has her period and needs some alone time tonight. I’ve had quite enough of you both, thanks.” 

Well… I was right about her period.

“Sure you want to let chicks in the militia? Little blood keeps them from a good screw,” I grumble what I think is only audible to Bass, but Rachel overhears, and I get her foot in my ass for it. 

“Right. Periods are so much more distracting than thinking with the tiny brains located in your penises all the time. No, you’re right, Miles.” Rachel successfully gets us both on the other side of her door and is closing it in our faces, having officially stolen my jacket. 

“Fine, fine, we’re going.” Bass says to her with a pout and nearly gets his lips lopped off in the jam. He turns to me and swipes, “Asshole!”

I shrug. We tramp through his office and head into the hallway. While I only glance sullenly at Lennox, on duty at his desk, Bass actually mutters some pleasantry to him before I catapult Bass through his double doors. 

“Oh, did you want to come in, General Brains-in-Your-Dick?” Bass grouses, stumbling a little but with a vague smirk on his face. Bass forgives me easier than Rachel does. 

“She was talking about you, too!” I insist.

“Mmm, no. I don’t think so. I’m far more reasonable than you are even when I’m horny.”

“Yeah, fuckin’ right!” I slam him backward into his cupboard and begin to run my tongue over his Adam’s apple to make my point, fishing downward with my fingers to unleash his cock. I just really want to bury myself in him, be grateful for him, forget about… everything for a while. 

Bass is kicking aside his pants and boxers and lifting off his shirt when he finally answers breathlessly, “I’m so much more civilized than you are. That’s why I’m prez and you’re my- uh! general. Fuck, man, not so hard!”

I actually didn’t mean to grab him like that - I was kind of slipping in our pile of shed clothes, while trying to get my shorts off, still wanking him. “Sorry!” I mutter, returning to his lips and sucking. “Yeah, you’re civilized,” I say into his mouth, “except when you tie me up and whip me.” 

“Fuckkkk.” Bass meets my tongue with his, as I toss him a tad more carefully below the belt. After we make out for a few more minutes, Bass slides his long, sexy fingers down both my arms until he reaches wrists, constricting them. “You want that?” he pants, and I can almost feel my dick grow two sizes. 

I shake my head. “Nah. Too worked up to wait.” But I like that he asks. It’s, um, thoughtful. I suppose he could tell that I was getting a bit agitated over that conversation. I suppose he was too. We’ve been through a lot to get where we are today. It’s kind of amazing we ever pulled it off - two Marine sergeants, only one-half college education between us (thanks solely to Bass). 

I kiss him gratefully for another minute, breathing heavily into his mouth. “Wanna fuck you,” I mumble distractedly, and he returns almost instantly, “Oh _all_ the fucking is gonna happen.” We snicker, because we can both tell it’s going to get frisky. 

A few minutes later, we’re making good on our promises in Bass’ bed, a few candles lit mainly so I can feast my eyes on his abs of perfection. He must do a thousand crunches a day when I’m not looking. God, he’s inspiring. 

Bass has mounted my cock and is riding me hard enough that sweat is rolling down my chest, while his unrestrained erection slaps flamboyantly against his stomach and hips. I start to worry it’s going to tear off and try to grab for it, but it messes up our angle and Bass throws a hand against my pec. 

“Noo. Stay down, you truculent bitch!” he objects, threading his fingers into the tiny hairs of my stomach and yanking hard. Hell if I know what truculent means, but I accidentally half pop out of his ass, almost getting bent, and of course that impales _him_ wrong and we both _ow_ loudly. 

“Okay?” I ask desperately, pulling out. 

“Shit,” he nods. “Roll over. It’s my turn anyway.” 

He climbs off and I comply, burying my face in the pillows, ass in the air. He dumps what feels like an entire bottle of lube over me. I _hope_ it’s not the whole thing because that stuff is more precious than diamonds. His cock pokes me hard enough that I yelp, and he cackles almost maniacally. He can tell my pleasure-pain from my _actual_ -pain yelp, and it’s pretty obvious we’re just trying to outdo each other in aggression at this point. As much as we’re enjoying each other, I’m still faintly ticked he didn’t back me on the lady soldiers thing, and he’s probably a bit sore I reamed him for drawing on Rachel.

Still, adding a little color to your fucking does you good from time to time. It only takes a few minutes of him sliding roughly in and out of my butt for me to start moaning into the bed, “Mmmm, Bass. Yeah, fuck! Ah!” I’ve thrust my hand between my legs, but I barely need to pull; I’m coming from the inside. It’s this deep, dull ache of _yes_ and my brain short-circuits. 

I vaguely register Bass’ merry taunt about how I’m a “tight little bitch,” and “turn over so I can watch you wet yourself.”

I do turn over, smiling, still wringing myself, an inhuman groan caught in my throat. Like a total ape, he reaches into my seed and smears it through my chest hair and then onto his own chest. This is _not_ something Rachel would get into, let alone when Bass and I _really_ go at it, bonds and all.

Just as I’m starting to deflate, Bass pulls out of me and plants his ass on my chest, jerking himself with a kind of vigor that takes my breath away - literally, because he’s sitting _on my chest_. Okay, I know I should be revolted to have his dick that close to my face knowing where it’s just been, but Bass has this amazing bronze boner that I can barely restrain myself from sucking. Instead I sort of join in yanking on it until he looks near hysterical. 

“Yeah, I’m going to come on your face, Miles. Say my name again, ya little whore.” Bass manages a hell of a lot of words through gritted teeth. Even I’m impressed. 

I growl, “Fuck, Bass. Give it to me!” 

And he does. I have to close my eyes against the spray - bitter and sticky all over my lips. He flops forward, and we make out noisily through his jizz. I mean, objectively we’re probably disgusting, but I’d be lying if I pretended to be anything but completely satisfied. 

Finally Bass drops off me to the side and sighs. I bunch some sheets in my fist and rub them briskly over my face so I’m not all crackly in the morning. Then I reach my hand down and entangle it in his, lolling my head sideways to feast my eyes on him.

He half glances at me, though he looks too tired to turn his cheek. “You think we'll ever do this with Rachel?” he mumbles. 

“What? Fling each other’s cum around and talk dirty? Nah. Some things are better kept just between the boys.” Yeah, I know Rachel would say that sounds sexist. But she also thinks _everything_ sounds sexist. 

It’s a fine way to kill a perfect sexy buzz, but I can’t help thinking about some of the other things we kept ‘just between the boys’ tonight. All the lives we took, the mistakes we made. All the nights we cried ourselves to sleep alone and scared. 

I squeeze Bass’ hand and tell him, “Glad I did this with you- not the sex,” I cut off his snicker with a mild grumble. Then, sincerely: “Our Republic.”

He squeezes back. “Yeah. Me too.”


	13. Metal Kitchen Spatula

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: May 18, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:

  *       Latitude: 39.948876
  *       Longitude: -75.150024
  *       Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Metal Kitchen Spatula  
□ Feature: _________________

Description: Silver (likely stainless steel) kitchen spatula with faux-wood handle  
Location: 1D  
Condition of Excavated Material: Broken jagged handle, bent flat blade

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
N/A

**Fall 2019: Bass**

Wow, it’s really coming down. Miles and I often talk about how we kind of like that the Blackout tended to render things like toilets and umbrellas irrelevant, but right now with water pouring down my eyelashes so thickly I can barely keep my eyes open, I do miss civilization. I have a goddamn headache too - spent nearly all day buried in paperwork and then only in the midst of this terrific rainstorm had to come out and survey an ammo drop. Fuck me. Maybe Doc can give me something. Who I wouldn’t kill for an Advil right now.

I’m walking by the stables when I hear it - a miniscule mewing. Christ, what is that, a kitten? The tiniest, most woeful little creature on God’s green earth creeps hesitantly out to me like I’m its long-lost mother. It’s a calico and barely past the point of opening its eyes. Aw, poor thing. I can’t just leave it alone out here. Judging by its visible rib cage (vaguely reminiscent of Miles during the siege of Philly), it’s half-starved. I scoop it up with one hand, a bedraggled little ball of wet fuzz, and tuck it in the inside pocket of my coat. It seems to like it against my heartbeat, snuggling up there; I can feel the vibrations of its purr. 

I fling open the front door to the Hall on Miles and Jeremy in the middle of bantering over some militia issue - I can tell by their body language. To me it’s like coming in from a wearying day at work to your family trying to one-up each other at Jeopardy; there’s no two people left in the world who I know better (and no one I’ve _ever_ known better than Miles). They look me up and down with evident dismay (Jeremy) and unapologetic mockery (Miles). It only makes me gladder to be home. 

“Uh, Bass, can I get you a towel or a robe or something?” Jeremy drawls, hands in pockets. 

“Or… a mumu?” Miles joins in, his smirk broadening, also hands in pockets. 

“Mm, pass. Mumus make my legs look hairy-” 

The kitten interrupts me with a meow so tremendous, it’s like its tiny mouth is hooked up to a megaphone. 

Miles and Jeremy both freeze. “Did you just say… _meow_?” Jeremy asks, and Miles and I both snicker. We love a good “Supertroopers” reference, and Jeremy knows it. The three of us have the same questionable taste in comedies: “Hotshots,” “Spaceballs,” “So I Married an Axe Murderer.” Miles and I knew Jeremy and us were meant to be when we hit all the same obscure sweet spots over late-night campfires in the early days of the Blackout. 

The second meow explodes forth just as violently, and Miles says, “Alright, empty your pockets, cat-” 

“-burglar,” Jeremy finishes for Miles with gusto, and Miles rolls his eyes. “Cat _woman_? I couldn’t tell which way you were going with that!” 

Miles lightly smacks the back of Jeremy’s head. The jokes are only getting worse and worse as he acquires no new material to pull from. I produce the little kitten in the palm of my hand and just barely restrain it from hurling itself into space. 

“Don’t do it, kitty! You’ve so much to live for!” Jeremy urges it, as I struggle to hold it fast and roll _my_ eyes at him in perfect imitation of Miles. 

“Aw Bass, the hell you doing with a kitten?” Miles shakes his head. It’s only with Miles’ reproach that it occurs to me that maybe I _was_ being a touch impulsive. 

“It was wet and lonely and lost its mommy!” I explain dolorously, as it drives it’s dagger claws into me and escapes at last. I yowl: “Christ! Feet like little pincushions!” 

“Well you deserve it, bringing a cat in here. Probably has fleas and diseases…” Miles is mumbling, but all three of us immediately take to scampering around like idiots trying to catch it - Miles under the console table, Jeremy blundering toward the guard room, me somewhere in between. None of us are really cat people, but I have this soft spot for kittens considering old Muff and Puss. This weird twinge of chivalry insists I’m somehow doing this for Cyn and Angie; it’s what they would want. 

It dawns on me: _Rachel_ is lonely. Maybe she wants a cat? 

Jeremy has caught it by the scruff of its neck, walking it back over to me as it paws at him, dragging a line of fresh blood across his fingers. “Owie!” Jeremy objects but holds it dutifully. “I hate your cat, Bass. It’s a little shit!” 

Miles snorts from under the table where he’s still down on his hands and knees. When he tries to get up, he cracks his head on the wood above. “Motherfucker!” 

I reach out my hand to retrieve the kitten with a “Hand her over,” and Jeremy complies with a “ _Her_?” 

“Well, it doesn’t have a dick, so yes, I assume _her_. I’m no cat expert!” 

Miles has stood, nursing the bump on his head, sending his chestnut hair sticking up in all directions. “Alright, enough with the cat, you two. Jeremy, you’re just stalling - get out there and do your captainly duty. This is your big chance to prove you’re not the most useless officer in this whole goddamn militia.” Miles nods his chin toward the door and hands Jeremy a stack of official-looking papers from his coat pocket. 

Jeremy objects (because he _always_ objects to whatever you tell him to do), “Now Miles, you’re only being testy to see if you can scare me out into the storm, because you don’t want to go yourself!” 

“Damn straight, and I can order you, too, if that’s what it takes.” 

“What’re you making Jeremy do?” 

“Deliver the orders and maps to Butch for tomorrow’s recon mission.”

“Oh yeah, get out there, you lazy ass!” I gesture at the door. “And don’t come home till you’re through!” I lean on Miles’ shoulder and grin deviously, the kitten climbing my sodden jacket with its velociraptor claws. 

Jeremy mumbles miserably to himself as he stomps out the door and into the rain. 

Miles smiles down at me, his arms folded in pompous satisfaction. “I love telling people what to do.” 

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose to dull my headache. “I know you do. That’s why I made you my general.” 

“Bass, the cat. Really, don’t we have enough responsibilities around here?” 

I almost start, I’m so touched that Miles just assumed this would be, like, our kitten-child together. I catch it, as it hangs like a spider from my pant leg and tuck it back into my pocket. Water drips unpleasantly down my curls into the collar of my jacket. 

“Not for _us_ ,” I can barely restrain a grin, because _damn_ , my man is adorably loyal to me, “I was thinking Rachel might want some company. Does Rachel like cats?” 

Miles fixes me with one of those layered chocolatey-eyed stares that he reserves exclusively for Rachel thoughts. I’m almost regretting my suggestion when he finally shrugs, “Don’t know. Rachel and I don’t actually _know_ each other all that well.”

Jesus, Miles and his endless inner fount of self-pity. I put my hand on his neck and squeeze. “Well you do in the ways that count.” Why am I comforting him about Rachel? Fuck, the man always manages to get me to feel sorry for him. Well, two can play at that game. _I’m_ the one who feels like hell. 

“I have this horrible fucking headache. Is Doc still in his office?” 

Miles looks duly concerned and nods. I guess I don’t often ask for the doctor’s assistance. 

“Can you get something from him for me?”

“Yeah. You should lose those wet clothes, too, before you get sick.” 

“Okay, Mom. Right after I deliver this kitten.”

We mount the stairs together, Miles in an energetic sprint as he zooms ahead of me up to the third floor. I stop on the second, and after clearing the Liberty Bell, nod to Lennox on my way into my office. 

“Sir, for God’s sakes. You’ll catch your death like that!” 

I smile, “You’ll have to vie with Miles to mother me, Lennox. He’s already been on me about it.” My recent funk - the feeling of being slightly but perpetually _off_ \- lifts a little at the confirmation that people do seem to care about me around here. 

I make my way through my office to Rachel’s double doors and knock briskly. We don’t really have a special knock for her yet, nor am I entirely sure I want her to have one. Secret knocks are Miles’ and my thing. Jesus, what am I, eight? Because that’s how old Miles and I were when we invented secret knocks. There really is an astounding immaturity that grows from being best friends with someone across an entire lifetime.

“Hey, Rach?” I follow up since she hasn’t answered, though there are only a few people in the world who’d approach her door and fewer still as the day passes into evening. 

“Come in, Bass!” her muffled voice invites at last, and I step into her room. I begin apologetically, “I’m really wet so-” 

The words fade in my throat at the ancient sight of a luminous woman stepping out of her bath, golden crown ducking into a white towel. Her long, creamy legs extend up into a fetching nest of dark blonde curls, then northward a tiny puckered line - her battlescar from birthing - then above that the dip of bellybutton, and finally two full breasts with lovely, pink buds. I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, or somewhere in between, this is beauty. Women were designed to look at, and I don’t mean that in some objectifying way. I mean… in this grim, post-apocalyptic shithole of a planet, women still look like art. 

The contrast with all the men with whom I usually surround myself is striking: unsettling, but also titillating. 

I’m staring, so she casually chimes, “Yes?” as she wraps her hair in a turban of towel and ties up her robe. 

“I’m sorry, I’m, uh, really wet. I don’t want to drip all over your floor, but I brought you something.” 

“You brought me a gift?” Her lively lips turn up, and she crosses her arms. 

“Kind of?” I suddenly feel insecure about this, but I pull out the kitten anyway, since she’ll only make herself known eventually. She mews merrily, far less abashed than I.

“Oh! A… it’s a tiny kitten. My goodness. Um…” Rachel shifts weight on her bare feet but doesn’t approach. 

“If you don’t want her, I can bring her out to the stablehands; she can be their ratter. It’s just… she’s so young and seemed so lonely…” 

Rachel regards the kitten and I for a long moment and then finally pads over. She runs the backs of her fingers over its tiny head, and it nuzzles her and purrs. 

“She likes you!” I encourage. 

“Does she? I’ve never had a pet.” 

“Never?” 

“You have?” 

“Sure, we had dogs growing up, and the girls had a pair of kittens until Mom put the kibosh on them.” I’ve known Rachel for many years, and she’s always had this vaguely off-putting cold, sciency quality about her. It comes out when she’s faced with the new. “I just thought… you might want some company?” I try to help her along. It’s just a _cat_ , Rachel.

Rachel bites her lip, appearing to ponder the offer for a while longer. “Thank you,” she announces suddenly, cocking her head at the little squirming kitten.

“You… want her?”

“Yes?”

“Okay then. I’ll have Molly set up a litter box and bring her some food. She’s hungry.”

Rachel plucks at the soft terry cloth of her towel, letting the kitten sniff her finger. “Okay,” she agrees absent-mindedly. “Have her bring some fresh towels too. She’s soaking wet.” She must not have paid me much mind because I’m wetter than the cat is.

“Um, I’m going to go dry off and try to shake my headache. Speaking of company, you want ours tonight?”

“Yes,” she nods, as I let the kitten drop to the floor, and she begins exploring her new domain. Rachel seems dazed by the new development, and I’m too weary to pursue it. Best to leave her to figure out the mysteries of pet ownership. She’s smart and all that. My parting glance to the kitten reveals it’s climbing the curtains - so, settling in just fine.

I’m passing back through my office when Miles meets me with a steaming mug that smells rather unpleasantly of medicinal plant with a hint of lemon.

“From Doc. Feverfew, he said? Sorry, it smells like shit, so I dumped a bunch of honey in it for you.”

I chuckle, relishing Miles taking care of me - a rarity, believe me. He’s not the most sympathetic about sickness. Suck it up until you collapse or get better is his motto. Who knows why he’s being gentle with me this evening. Maybe he thought the kitten was a cry for attention? (Maybe it is?)

“Thanks,” I receive the mug, pulling a face at the smell but sucking it down anyway.

Miles eyes me through long, dark eyelashes just for a moment, before shifting his swords with a _clink_ and saying, “Gotta go and talk to Butch after all.”

“Jeremy didn’t cut it?”

“Eh, s’not really his fault. Butch and I have to figure out a better line of approach that won’t put the horses through so much mud. Can’t afford to lose anymore shoes, you know? Anyway, don’t wait up.” He bends in to kiss me rather indulgently on the lips and then makes a face at the way the tea tastes on me.

“Hey,” I catch his large hand as he moves toward the door. “Gonna sleep in Rachel’s room. At least come to bed with us when you get back.”

He freezes for a second, but before I’ve had time to really wonder if that’s jealousy burning in his brown eyes, he brushes a kiss to the back of my hand. “Kay.”

Unsure as I am about Rachel, I must admit I’m grateful to her because I hate sleeping alone. Miles is a rather unreliable sleeping companion - he stays up late drinking, working, playing cards with the cadre. I do, too, but on the nights where I just want a warm body to hold, he often disappoints. Rachel has no where else to be at night, which I realize is because of this tragic Rapunzel-situation we’ve created, but it’s also terribly convenient for me. I hope she at least likes the kitten I brought her. It is pretty difficult to be depressed around a kitten.

When I rejoin Rachel at bedtime, my headache finally dissipated, I find her sitting up in her robe in bed, a book open on her knees and the kitten rolling around in the blankets beside her. They’re illuminated by a firestorm of hurricane lamp and candles. Rachel’s observing her new companion like she’s taking mental measurements. It’s kind of cute. I hope she’s remembered to pet the poor thing. She must have at least toweled it off because its fur is sticking up in all directions, soft and dry. Glancing around the room, I notice a makeshift litter box tucked back over by one of the closets and a little rug on the window seat with a bowl of milk.

“How’re you two getting on?” I ask, shedding all my clothes and snuggling down under the covers. The three of us seem to have developed a routine where we always sleep naked even if we aren’t planning on fucking. I guess we all relish the satisfaction of his fur and sinews against my smooth, hard-packed muscles against her silky squish.

She nestles against me without really looking up, bent knees casting shadows on the bed. I like this about us - Rachel and I are natural snugglers; Miles - not so much.

“Fine, so far. I don’t think she’s too sure of me in her space,” Rachel says wryly, gesturing at the bedroom that’s been solely hers for several months now, if you don’t count my and Miles’ frequent intrusions. “Friendly, though. Hope you didn’t inadvertently steal some local kid’s kitten.”

“Taking over already, huh?”I smile, ignoring her lack of faith in me. Reaching for the kitten’s belly, I promptly get pawed and am forced to conceal my fingers beneath the blanket, which only marks them more clearly as prey. She pounces and rolls on them, and I’m grateful for the layers of fabric between us. “You name her yet?”

Rachel flashes me the cover of her book: Edgar Allan Poe, _The Complete Short Stories_. “Morella,” she declares, as if it’s rather obvious.

“Hah! Morbid,” I laugh, as Morella catches my thumb and tries to draw blood through the cotton. Christ, she almost succeeds. Ouch! “Who is she again - Morella?”

“Oh you know a brilliant and beautiful recluse, who drives her husband mad, then dies to be presumably reborn into her daughter’s body, only to die again.”

“Wow, Poe really outdid himself there.” I gently nudge the kitten aside and blow out the candles next to me, while Rachel discards her robe and book and turns down the lamp.

I pull the softness of her body on top of mine, before I have time to question us alone together in bed. We’ve done it just the two of us only once before and not _in bed_ , you know? More personal this way. She slides a hand over my pec and whispers with a genuine crease of concern on her brow:

“Bass… do you really think I can take care of this cat?” … which is not at all what’s on my mind.

I almost laugh, but her evident sincerity makes me swallow it. “Um yes, Rachel. You’re a good mother. I’ve seen you talk Charlotte down from a temper tantrum violent enough to raise hell. Cats are nothing compared to kids. You’ve got this.”

I reach up to reassuringly run my hand through her hair as she draws a fingertip around my nipple. Shivering under her, blood pooling in my lap, I tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear.

“You wanna?” I rasp, and she’s nodding before the words have even left my mouth.

“Yeah.” Rachel lifts her head, her own voice rough and scratchy, even on just that one determined little word. She spreads her legs farther open, so the moistening warmth of her presses into my growing hardness, and plants her lips in the dip of my collarbone. She’s so much softer than Miles - none of his jagged edges. Mmm, it’s pretty fucking comforting.

I let my eyes drift shut. Her fingers are skating over my ribs, but when my dick lurches, in a sudden fit of misgiving, I blurt, “This is weird, right?”

Rachel huffs a nervous laugh against my chest, lifting her eyes to mine. “Of course it is.”

“We don’t have to do this alone together, you know.”

“I know that.” She pushes herself up, one hand braced on the bed beside me, and runs the other through her hair. “I _want_ to.”

I want to too (I think), but frankly I’m not quite sure _why_ and say so almost instantly: “Why? Isn’t this- this _thing_ , all about Miles?” No sooner have the words left my mouth than I actually feel sort of ticked at Miles. He does have all the power here, doesn’t he? And yet here Rachel and I are together. It means something; I just don’t quite know what.

“Well,” Rachel pauses, chewing on her lip. “Yeah. But, you know, sex with Miles is intense, emotional. This feels… less complicated.”

_This_ feels less complicated than fucking a man she’s clearly in love with? I don’t know that I’ll ever really be capable of comprehending the thing between Miles and Rachel beyond, you know, the attraction of opposites. Besides, Miles’ laserbeam focus when he makes love to you, _fuck_ \- is there anything on earth I adore more? I do not get this woman.

In my hesitation, she explains, “You’re charming and familiar and, I’m sorry, but in this room, you’re always just going to be Bass to me. Not President Monroe.”

“Charming, huh?” I latch onto, a sucker for a compliment (and grateful for distraction from my uncertainty).

Rachel rolls her eyes at my smirk and purposefully reaches a hand back to wrap around my cock, squeezing just hard enough to get my attention. “You gonna sit there and grin at me all night?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

Well, she knows I can’t resist a challenge - especially from her - so propelled into action, I reach for the nightstand drawer to retrieve a precious, hoarded condom and the small bottle of lube. As I roll on the condom under her gaze, her settling back onto my thighs, I find I can’t read her like Miles or the other women I’ve slept with. She’s smarter than all of them, probably put together, and it feels a bit like playing with fire. But playing with fire is something I do - always have.

So when Rachel holds out a hand, I don’t hesitate to squeeze some of the slippery liquid onto her fingertips before setting aside the bottle. Lifting herself up onto her knees on either side of me, she curls a small hand around my cock and parts herself with two fingers, smearing on the wetness and dragging my tip through it, head back, teeth in her lip.

_Uh_. My hands clamp on her hips, and I’m just edging inside her, jaw clenched in concentration, when a needle injects into my foot. I hear myself howl in pain.

Rachel shrieks in surprise, gripping my shoulders. “What, what?” she demands, probably thinks I’m having a heart attack or something. “Bass, what’s-”

“The _cat_ -” I manage, catching sight of the little fuzzy devil-creature perched on my covered feet. Rachel twists around on top of me and dissolves into laughter, reaching back and plucking _Morella_ off the bed with a hand. She brings her up to her cheek and the kitten bats at her, claws retracted now. “Goddammit, I think I’m bleeding.”

Rachel only laughs harder, her eyes crinkled at the edges as she sets the little cat on my chest. “Who knew your Waterloo was a kitten?” She bends down, receiving a tiny kitten kiss, that little pink tongue lapping out at Rachel’s nose. “I think General Matheson needs to hear about this. Yes, I do, huh?” She’s talking to the cat, not me, her voice higher-pitched than usual and a grin splitting her face.

It’s oddly disorienting (and frankly, a touch endearing) to see Rachel smile and giggle so genuinely. “Well I guess we know who _you_ like best,” I grumble at the little kitten, nudging Morella with my finger. Rachel reaches out to hook her finger around mine and we do battle for a moment, while she continues laughing.

The kitten crawls out from between us and Rachel instinctively catches her before she can fall off the bed, all without breaking away from me. Ever the mother. I pull Rachel down into me for a kiss, vexed by her divided attention. Her lips are soft and she tastes sweet, like strawberries. I never noticed that before. She retracts for a moment to set Morella gently on the floor.

When she straightens, her eyes are sparkling, and she gives me an arched, challenging eyebrow. “So we going to try this again?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, taking in the sight of her blonde hair mussed about shoulders and her full breasts.

Rachel grasps my rubbered cock, gone slightly soft, and coaxes me back to rock hard, panting, before abruptly pausing and fixing me with those steely, pristine blues. _Damn_ , with all these fits and starts, I’m starting to wonder if she’s the cat and I’m the mouse. Soon she’ll have my neck between her teeth, me compliant to the end as long as she’s got my dick.

“So you’re charming and familiar, and I’m _what_ to you exactly?” she asks, not unfriendly, more curious, collecting facts for her journal, all the while her hand clenched on my cock.

“You’re, mmm,” I pulse as she squeezes right above the roll of the condom. Oh fuck. “You’re a beautiful, brilliant woman I’ve known my whole adult life. And us together is… oddly satisfying?”

My head is muddled now - I almost don’t know what I’ve said, but it appears to be enough for her, because she resumes stroking, and I nearly choke, “Uhh. Got to be inside you, Rach.”

Whether she takes pity on me or wants it as badly as I do, a few seconds later she’s guiding me into her with a little crinkle of latex. Rachel whimpers, ducking her chin to her chest, hair falling in her face - all normal signs of enjoyment - and that makes me ease up a bit, taking me surprisingly close to my edge from all the buildup. Her hands are chilly on my stomach, but she’s warm and slick inside.

She shudders on me, wincing slightly, as I let my fingers trail down her body, thumbs massaging her stomach; the heels of her palms press hard into my chest. I slide one hand around to cup her ass, canting my hips off the bed to reach just a little deeper. Her hands roam over me, dipping occasionally to her clit like she’s teasing herself, and it’s quiet but for our heavy breathing - maybe a little too quiet. I almost wish we were negotiating something, but we’re just feeling each other out instead, and it’s so… intimate.

Fuck me, we’re both close now. I can tell, because my muscles are all wound up while she’s starting to flutter around my cock, her fingers rolling her own nipple. I reach up to brush her hand aside, cradling that heavy, tender breast and pinching her nipple just hard enough to make her cling to me, nails in my arm.

I’m so entranced by Rachel coming undone, I’m finishing before I realize I’m there. Tugging her down to me, I roll us over and hitch her thighs higher on my hips. The bed bounces under us, as she wraps her hands around the back of my neck, and we come together deep and satisfying. Rachel strains upward to rest her forehead on mine.

When I roll away to discard the condom in the wastebasket by her bed, I notice it’s filled mostly with crumpled notebook pages. It makes me wonder what’s on them - who I’ve just given myself to in an undeniably intimate way. With a sigh, I wrap Rachel back in my arms, and Morella figures it safe to rejoin, the three of us snuggling down into the covers together.

“Maybe this doesn’t have to be so weird,” I murmur against Rachel’s soft cheek, my arm tightening around her waist. I cling to her, and unlike Miles, she actually clings back. I mean I could get used to this.

Rachel laughs softly, “Your optimism is… endearing.” She kisses me, not quite on the lips and settles back against me.

I’m asleep before I can really ponder which is more unsettling, that she thinks me an optimist or that I feel myself growing desperately attached to the way her body fits in and against mine.

I must be asleep for a good stretch of the night before the click of the doors and the rustle of clothing dropping to the floor lets me know Miles has come in. I’m instantly and fully awake and can tell right away that getting back to sleep is going to be a feat.

I’m facing away from the door toward the elegant slope of Rachel’s back, one of my bony legs kicked in between her soft ones, her arousal long since dried to crust on my thigh. As the whiskey-smoke of Miles’ lean, furry body settles against me from behind, I glance back and catch his hand in mine. For a beat, I feel like I cheated on him tonight. It turns my stomach, and I push it away with:

“Everything okay for tomorrow’s expedition?”

“Mmm,” he whispers, already drifting off, his wet kiss drying against my neck.

It’s a superpower, being able to zonk out as fast as he does. And frankly, it’s a little irritating at the moment, because I want to know what he thinks of the fact that Rachel and I now officially do it without him - that we might even satisfy each other in ways Miles doesn’t. If it upsets him, it would justify the way my insides are all knotted up; but if he’s okay with it, maybe I can let it go too. In any case, with Miles drooling a little on my back, I don’t get to ask.

I lie awake in between them for at least an hour, watching the kitten silhouetted in the moonlight on the window seat, before I finally decide I have to get up. I skipped dinner because of my headache and am positively famished. I also crave distraction from my now racing brain - compiling misery upon fear and soaring to near-paranoia. Miles will learn to hate me for fucking Rachel; how can he not? And Rachel will demolish me one orgasm at a time, until she unseats me and becomes Miles’ sole companion. Fuck me, what am I even saying? I’m _losing_ it. Nothing ever seems reasonable between midnight and dawn - the curse of the insomniac.

I’m creeping out the door in my bare feet, cotton shirt, and trousers, when I jump at small fingers closing around my bicep.

“Bass?” Rachel whispers, tying her robe about her waist.

“Sorry I woke you,” I squeeze on her hand, before prying it off me. “Hungry. Heading down to the kitchen to whip something up.” In the darkness, I can’t make out her eyes, but I sense some disquiet off her. She’s a prisoner in this room, not at liberty to go to the kitchen when _she’s_ hungry. “Want to come?” I ask in a fit of ill-thought-through sympathy.

She hesitates, as we both glance back at Miles’ slumbering form. I wonder, rather absurdly, if she feels she needs his permission to go with me. His long arms and legs take up the whole bed now, Morella curled up happily on his bare belly, no doubt having discovered the comforting heat and soft hair of Miles that Rachel and I so relish… when he’s not poking you with a sharp elbow or knee.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m hungry too,” she agrees, rubbing her hands over her arms. Well, I invited her, and now I’m stuck with her. Stuck isn’t _exactly_ fair - I’m, as usual, grateful for company. Still, I never know where our conversations will lead when we’re idle together.

After lighting a candle, I lead her by the hand barefoot through the chilly Hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen. She’s never been in here before, so just as Morella would no doubt do, Rachel immediately begins poking around in cupboards and corners, opening bottles and sniffing their contents. I can’t help but grin at the scientist, as I build us a roaring fire, and light the lamps and the stove.

“While you’re investigating, Rach, how about you see what’s in the icebox?”

She cracks open the lid and peers in shivering and gripping her elbows. “Eggs?” she suggests.

“Yeah! Always good late night food. See if there’s a hunk of bacon grease in there too. Maybe some of that fresh cheese Dell was working on?” Dell, the head cook, is kind of a genius at making farmer’s cheese taste like it dropped from heaven.

Rachel sets all three ingredients on the counter, really shivering now, so I encircle her from behind and run my hands up and down her thin arms.

She dips her nose forward into some hanging herbs and exclaims, “Oregano! This will be nice.”

And this is how it happens that Rachel and I end up cooking together at what the grandfather clock confirms is three-thirty in the morning. The sizzling and popping and buttery scents of breakfast intermingle with the crackle and smoke of the fire and make for a rather pleasant scene if I do say so myself.

I’m cracking eggs with one hand into a bowl for the second omelette, when Rachel leans on her palms and comments, “I’ve got to say, Bass, you surprise me. Where did you learn to cook?”

“Oh, my mother. Isn’t that how everyone learns? Mom made the best pies in the world.” I salivate a little at the thought of her lemon pie - my favorite. “Miles loved them too. On several occasions he was known to eat an entire one himself.” Of course, he always preferred apple; he’s a bit of a traditionalist.

She giggles, “Ew. That’s a lot of pie.”

I shrug, “Miles is a lot of man.”

“He’s also a disgusting cook! I remember he could ruin spaghetti.” Rachel appears to reminisce on that for a spell, dipping a spoon into some salt and sprinkling it over the spluttering omelette in the pan.

“He _is_ lousy, particularly at spaghetti. I think he just wants to get back at it for all those years it tormented him.”

“Hm?” Rachel’s brow furrows. I’m actually a little taken aback she doesn’t know about the spaghetti thing. I mean, she and Ben were married for years. This is as much a Ben thing as it is a Miles thing.

“Sure - didn’t Ben tell you? After their mom passed, Pop Matheson, Ben, and Miles only knew how to make three things: soggy burgers, spaghetti with meat sauce, and tacos in hard shells. They ate lettuce as their only vegetable for like nine years straight. Well slightly fewer for Ben, I guess. But still - that’s commitment to shitty cooking. You’d think one of them would’ve caved and finally cracked a cookbook. But no. It’s hard to say who’s the most stubborn out of ‘em.”

I side-eye her from the stove unsure of where this leaves us. We’ve never discussed Ben together outside of interrogations. Ben has meant one thing only since she came to Philly: Power.

“Really? He never… so that’s why Ben doesn’t care for salad! I always thought that was the strangest thing.”

“Right? Like salad should be innocuous, but it’ll make Miles gag in his mouth when he even thinks about it. Let me tell you, you’re lucky you never had to pull up to that table for dinner.” I ponder for a moment how much I probably know about young Ben that she’s never imagined.

She confirms it with: “Getting Ben to talk about his childhood was like pulling teeth.”

“Getting Mathesons to talk about _anything_ is pulling teeth.”

She nods pensively. “What were they like, Miles and Ben, when they were young?”

“Um…” I’m not really sure how to proceed here. The Matheson boys weren’t the picture of domestic bliss, but I don’t exactly want to hurt Rachel’s feelings. Ben has to be our most fraught topic - he’s everything Miles and I want from her, and yet here I am holding the key to information about him. I mean… I can probably use this. I _should_ use this.

“Well… Miles was quiet and brooding,” I say, choosing my words carefully and starting with the boy I knew best. Rachel grins a bit at that, because, well, _duh_. “Ben was… serious and kind of bossy? They didn’t really have that much in common, you know. Miles liked to do things outside with me, go exploring, play pirates and soldiers and stuff… Ben was always inside playing on his computer or whatever.” I paw around in my memories of the two of them interacting. “Uh, Ben called Miles ‘Squid,’ because Miles was always tracking dirt in the house. Miles hated that. I think Ben worried about Miles a lot? Because Miles was always daydreaming and utter shit in school. It made Ben sort of… hover.”

Rachel licks her pinky and swipes it over the salt clinging to the spoon in her hand before plunging the delicate finger into her mouth, pensive and thoughtful. “Were they ever… _tender_ with each other?”

Christ, is that a strange question. I have to really think about it, as I toss the first omelette onto a plate and pour in the second one. I hand her the plate, but she puts up her hand to signal I should eat first. With my mouth full of the first bite - delicious, actually - I answer, “I guess? When she died, you know.” Their mother, of course.

“You went to the funeral?”

“Sure, my whole family did. My mom felt really bad for Miles and Ben, losing their mother at such a young age. She brought them casseroles for weeks.” I feel Rachel’s clear blue eyes boring into the back of my skull, determined to extract from me what she wants. Well, I’m equally determined to turn this around on her if I can find the right moment. “Uh, I remember them sitting side by side on the pew, Miles kicking his legs and rattling the whole damn aisle. Ben kept telling him to cut it out. Miles had all this, like, Oreo dust under his fingernails, because there’d been a plate in the hallway, and he and I ate the whole thing! Haha.”

I can tell by her gaze she wants more on Ben, but he is hard for me. Miles and I were always avoiding him, vexed by him. I guess this particular day was a little different though. I clear my throat. “Ben didn’t cry, you know? I thought that was weird.”

“He tends to hold in his emotions, yes.”

“Miles got kinda sniffly, because, you know, his mom’s body was right there in front of him and … I mean, obviously he was only nine.” Shit, this is getting hard for _me_. I feel myself becoming choked up and swallow hard to force away thoughts of my own dead mother.

Rachel’s hand descends gently on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bass. You don’t have to tell me. I didn’t think.”

Fuck, she can read me like the front page - I sense the pity wafting off her. After all, she went to _my_ family’s funeral. We’re all tangled up in each other in the past and present. And I’m no Ben, able to hold in my emotions. But I’m determined to press on, see if I can find a new advantage. “I’m fine. Ben _did_ put his arm around Miles - I remember that - and Miles dropped his head on Ben’s shoulder. Neither one of them are big huggers so that struck me. It’s my family who taught Miles to hug. He used to be so awkward at it. I called him robo-hug.”

I stare intently at the omelette for a long moment and decide it’s done, flipping it out onto a plate for Rachel. She hops up on the counter, and the way her eyes flutter closed ever so briefly tells me it’s good. I plop down on the floor in front of the fire, forking my own relatively cold eggs into my mouth.

Finally, I reflect aloud, “That might be the only time I ever saw them embrace. Ben didn’t even hug Miles when he left for war.” There’s a bitterness to the tone, and she picks up on it right away.

“You don’t much like Ben, I gather.”

“Honestly? I’m not sure what you see in him. He always struck me as a bit cold and calculating… sort of selfish, really.” Rachel lifts an eyebrow as if to suggest that I hardly win the high ground on selfishness, but I brush it off, because I think I see my chance. “Miles never felt loved by his big brother, and I just can’t fathom that - how you wouldn’t just naturally and unconditionally love your little siblings. My sisters were… I would have done anything for them.” My voice wavers, but I recover. “But maybe Ben just saved all his affection for you.”

Rachel’s fork dangles from her regal fingers. I can see on her face that Ben didn’t, but she finally says, “He had his tender moments, especially with the children.”

I shake my head a little and stuff more omelette into my mouth. Through the eggs I comment as blandly as possible, “I know you say you were _both_ involved with the project that made the power go out, but I just can’t believe you’d be in it for the same reasons. Miles and I knew how hard your pregnancy with Danny was, how desperate you must have felt around the time you got involved with the DOD.”

Actually, this is a total longshot. Miles and I have spent countless conversations trying to piece together the puzzle of how Ben and Rachel might have been connected with the apocalypse, but we always come up short.

I can tell instantly, however, that I’ve hit a nerve - an _interesting_ one - because she glares and clatters aside her plate and fork to shut down the conversation with decisive vigor. “How dare you bring up Danny. He had nothing to do with Ben and my work and nothing to do with the DOD. You can’t possibly know what it’s like to nearly lose a child - can’t imagine what Ben and I went through.”

My eye twitches violently as I flash back to the tiny hole in the ground Miles and I dug for my daughter… right beside the bigger hole for Shelly. I didn’t want crosses to mark their graves because Shelly hated organized religion, so Miles helped me carve something out of wood for each of them. Shelly got a tree since she was a tree-hugger, a total hippie, and the baby got a star, so I could think of her home amongst the billions of other stars in the sky. It sounds so sappy, but… a dead baby just looks so lonely, I can’t even describe it.

When the door behind me swings open, I’m incredibly relieved to smell the whiskey-sweat of Miles behind me - I don’t even have to look to confirm. Tears are clinging to my eyelashes and I’m staring down in my food determined to recover.

“What’re you two… Jesus, Rachel, I nearly had a heart attack when you weren’t in your room! Bass, you stupid fucker,” he grumbles, but then his mouth stays open as he glances back and forth from her face to mine. “What’s… what’s going on?” He looks with particular apprehension at me; he can always tell when I’ve got family on my mind, no matter how well I think I’ve hid it.

“Nothing,” Rachel says matter-of-factly as she hops elegantly off the counter. “We were just hungry. How did you know where to find us?”

Miles scratches his stubble. “Bass is always raiding the kitchen at night. Been doing it since he was a kid.” He rests his hands on his hips and gazes down at me, concern still lined in his forehead. Finally, he extends one of his giant hands, and I let him help me up, my empty plate clasped in the other hand.

Rachel looks like she’s about to dump the rest of her omelette, when Miles snatches it from her and shovels in the last of it in one enormous bite. In answer to Rachel’s lifted eyebrows, Miles shrugs and says, “Wouldn’t want to waste good cooking.”

“You don’t know who cooked it,” she says smartly.

Miles carelessly tosses aside the plate and takes her by the hand, then nestles my hand in his other. “I love both your cooking equally, so it doesn’t matter. Now come to bed, you two.”

Miles really does look weary, leading us to the door. He’s probably only snagged an hour or two of sleep at this point. I catch Rachel’s eye behind his back and after a moment of uncertainty, we both start to smile, the re-budding of warmth between us in the drafty Hall. To be honest, even _that_ confuses me. How can two people develop genuine fondness, have passionate sex, and also _use_ each other all in the span of one night? Somehow, Rachel and I can.

One thing is certain: I feel safer with Miles back between us.


	14. Inscribed Whiskey Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to Maywitch for the awesome graphic! Sorry this is a sad Bass chapter. It's kind of typical for Miles to abandon Bass and then get mad at him. :/ 
> 
> If you’d like to hear what Retreat sounds like: [Bugle Retreat](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Retreat.ogg)

****

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: July 1, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:

  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Inscribed Whiskey Bottle _  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Single malt scotch whiskey distilled at “The Balvenie,” Distillery Banffshire, Scotland.  
Location: 2E[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Bottle broken, torn label (removed to preserve writing).

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
M-  
Our girl tells me it’s been 3 days since you had a drink. Might I congratulate you with this small token of appreciation?  
xo B

 

**Summer 2020: Miles**

“No, Miles. Put the bottle down. Leave it. Come with me,” Bass says like I’m his puppy, and I’ve got my teeth in his shoe. He’s trying to extract me from my bed where I’ve sequestered myself to drink and sleep for a day (a few days now?), just so I can recover a bit. I don’t know how to explain it, but sometimes I just feel done with life. It’s like catching cold or the stomach flu, but instead I catch inertia and a magnificent bout of self-loathing. Then, I just have to let those things spin out until they’re spent.

Bass is yanking on my numb, left arm, and it’s so fucking annoying, it makes my skin crawl. All my curtains are drawn, and it’s nice and dark in here like a womb. I bodily cling to my sweaty sheets to resist his relentless attempts to extract me.

Fucker is strong, so I’m reduced to words of resistance. I go for vicious and incisive and get out, “Mffarg.” _Fuck me, I’m drunk._ “Asshole.”

Well, at least I can still manage to be a dick. Then, I instantly feel horrible about it. Bass is just looking out for me and for good reason. For instance, I haven’t eaten in recent memory, but being as I _have_ been drinking continuously, I’ve lately taken to pissing out my own window. I can’t be bothered to use the outhouses and knew filling my chamber pot would require seeing someone’s ugly mug to empty it. So… this is your commanding general, Republic. You might want to bring an umbrella while strolling under my window.

Bass is dragging me across the hall; he’s dismissed the guard – that’s how embarrassed he is for me. I’m fully whiskered, and damn, I had no idea how much gray had already crept into my beard until this experiment with laziness. I’m also in my white undershirt and boxer shorts, which is almost unbearably pathetic, I know. I’m so dazed, I’m stumbling – pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to keep vertical if it weren’t for Bass’ supportive hand on my lower back. Even with him steadying me, I stub my toe on his desk as we pass it and let out a woeful yelp.

Bass sighs, “Come on, man,” and reaches down for my hand, accidentally brushing my adjacent crotch before interlocking his long fingers in mine. I get sad thinking about how that _should_ turn me on, but it doesn’t. Everything in life has lost its luster. I’m a fucking blob – a sucking vortex of nothing.

Bass leads me all the way into Rachel’s room, which feels like the center of the sun it’s so goddamn bright, and sets me in a chair with a, “Look what I found lying around. Should we keep it? It smells like absolute latrine.”

The room is swimming way too much for me to make out her face. She’s a hazy golden smear - her hair the same color as everything else in this room, the obnoxious late afternoon sun, the yellow walls. Why the fuck am I awake again? I hate daylight. I hate… _awake_.

“What have you been up to, Miles?” Rachel asks pointedly, like you’d do with a child. I ponder really hard how to answer her and nearly yack in the process.

Luckily, Bass answers for me. “Been sulking in his room for three days straight.”

“Fuck you,” I mumble thickly. It hasn’t really been three days, has it? “I…” Oh shit. I really _am_ going to… My stomach flip-flops, and I’m retching into a pan someone – _Rachel_ – has kindly thought to hold beneath my chin. I grab it from her, because Christ, poor Rachel. I let myself slide out of the chair and curl up with my cheek on the wooden floor next to the oppressive scent of bile and whiskey. My heart pounds, and I wipe my nose with two fingers. Fuck, I even barfed through my nose.

I have no idea what those two are up to for several minutes, while I lie still, focusing on breathing, actually relieved to have this break from the endless cycle of reminding myself what utter shit I am. And hey, I feel _slightly_ more sober now. I drift back to Bass’ scratchy, comforting voice:

“Your faith in humanity is cute and all, Rachel, but you’ll _lose_.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised by the force of my will, Bass.”

Bass gives a short laugh. “I already am.” He shifts his swords with a hand and squints at the sound of a bugle call that ends with quick sixteenth-notes: Retreat. So it’s 1700.

I push myself into a sitting position and lean back against the chair behind me, gripping my pan. “Should I dump this out the window?” I say, not really thinking through whether this is a viable option.

The twin blonde heads snap in my direction. “What!?” Rachel cries, and Bass simultaneously objects, “Miles! Christsakes.”

Bass’ boots trudge over and plant themselves before me. I look up at his sparkling blue eyes, wiping the back of my hand across my unusually furry mouth.

“You’ve got chunks in your beard, hun,” Bass exhales mightily, while reaching down to retrieve my pot of vomit. “I’ve got to go see to _your_ boys. Some kind of disciplinary problem with one of the enlisted men... William Strausser. You stay here with Rachel and sleep it off.” His voice has an edge, but then he adds more tenderly, “Feel better,” and walks out with my insides.

Bass may be president of the whole goddamn Republic, but he loves me enough that he’ll carry my fucking chamber pot. It almost makes me cry. Hey - an emotion! Something to break up my anesthetized stupor. But nope, it instantly vanishes.

Strausser did he say? I certainly don’t know all my privates, but I know that one. I keep him in the stables under close watch for a reason. But I’m too brain dead to really care. Bass’ll do… whatever he does.

I brush the hair out of my eyes, and finally Rachel’s in focus, sitting cross-legged on her bed in black jeans and a green blouse. I’m actually a little intimidated to be left alone with her in this state. It turns out she’s pretty gentle with me even though she’s got to be revolted.

“Molly will draw up a bath for you here. You can stay with me until you sober up.”

I raise an eyebrow. I don’t want to think this way, but I do: My own prisoner giving me orders. I don’t like anyone telling me what to do, but _her_ doing it admittedly irks me even more. “What makes you think I plan on sobering up?” I’m really fucking PMSy. Wish Bass woulda just left me in my hole.

On the plus side, Rachel’s no shrinking violet. “I want you to try for the rest of this week: no booze.”

“No booze? You crazy? I haven’t gone without a drink for…Christ, I can’t even remember.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and swallow the errant bits in my mouth.

“I’d like you to try. _For me._ ”

Her blue eyes are earnest, and I suddenly feel terrible for her. I really do. She’s been dealt a horrific hand in life – namely by yours truly. I owe her… whatever she wants. (Except freedom, right? An asshole like me draws the line somewhere.)

I haven’t answered her, so she offers, “I’ll help distract you, Miles. Give you something better to do.”

I’m about to rub my hand over my face again when I freeze. _Something better?_

“Just tell me you’ll try.” The woman is very insistent.

I doubt there’s another person on earth I’d say this for, but with a sigh I promise, “I’ll try.”

Some of the lines in her face relax at that. My gaze falls and rests briefly on her pretty toes. Well, that’s a sign of life for me. I can still appreciate the beauty of something.

The redheaded maid is now shuffling in with bathwater. I just stare at my own bare feet (ugly, hairy toes), too sheepish to look up. The maid’s seen me in all kinds of states, but in my underwear reeking of vomit? This is particularly humiliating. When she’s finally gone, Rachel stretches out her long legs and stands before me, offering both slim hands to help me up. To her credit, she doesn’t even wrinkle her nose at how wretched I smell. I look down and notice a yellow smear on my t-shirt. Gross.

“How about we get you in the bath, and then I reward you with a blowjob?”

Christ. My dick _almost_ twitches. I don’t think I’ve heard her say that word out loud before.

“The blowjob parts sounds nice,” I confess, mussing my hair in the back with my fingers.

“Well you’re filthy, and I bet you taste terrible. The bath is nonnegotiable.”

We somehow manage to unpeel me from three days worth of summer sweat-soiled underclothes, before I blunder into the tub with a monumental splash.

“You want me to shave you? Bass left me his shaving kit.”

I shrug and almost instantly hear a chair scratch up behind me. Then she dips a washcloth right into my lap, the rough fabric brushing my cock, and draws it up to my beard, wetting the bristles. It’s not quite long enough to require scissors, but she’s in for some hard work. She lathers me up as I sink back, tilting my head up to give her access, my eyes fluttering shut.

The scrape of blade against my skin is soothing. She works a long time in silence, before she finally asks, “You want to tell me what’s going on with you, Miles?”

“Hmm?” I grunt, refusing to crack my eyelids even minutely now that they’re in their preferred state.

“You’re not usually this bad.”

I shrug. “Sometimes I am.”

“But something must have set you off.”

How do you explain to someone that it doesn’t even take anything with me? I’m _that_ pathetic. I may have organized the biggest army in the Northwest, but I also happen to be the laziest, most self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch on this whole continent. I have no idea how someone can be all those things at once.

I haven’t answered her, and she’s still waiting. So I say whatever comes to mind, and as the words tumble out, I realize how much this _is_ bothering me. “It’s these damn rebels. Cropping up everywhere we don’t have a militia presence, turning more and more citizens against us.”

She pauses briefly to flick the shaving soap. “Have you listened to their grievances at all? Or are you just shooting them where they stand?”

“You mean have I negotiated with terrorists? Nope, haven’t tried that yet. But now that you mention it...” I bite sarcastically.

She’s used to my grumpiness and remains remarkably calm. “I only meant they could have a legitimate complaint that, if addressed, could save you a lot of agony - spare your men’s lives.”

“Right, because people are _so_ reasonable. If you just _listen_ to them, they’ll fall over themselves to be civil and do the right thing.” I mean, I’m in full-on jackass mode now. I pause for a moment and then explode, “What is the fucking _point_ of humans, Rachel? We _want_ to treat each other like shit. We get off on it! Look at how I treat you!” There's an echo in the high-ceilinged room as I bang my hand against the metal edge of the tub. Water splashes up at us and Rachel flinches, sighing softly as she wipes droplets off her arm.

With impressive self-control, she levels my sideburns (Christ - this woman could lead troops into battle) and asserts, “There is _no_ point to humans, Miles. We just evolved from amoeba. We just fucking evolved.”

There is a beat of silence before I brush away her hand for a moment to laugh. I mean, my face feels like cracking cement, but I really laugh. And she does too, if only for a second. I wish we’d fucking _stayed_ amoebas.

She’s being terribly generous to me in my insufferable state, and I start to relax under her cool fingers. I’m almost asleep by the time she rakes them through my chest hair. She grazes her lips against my now smooth cheek and whispers, “Okay,” and there’s something melancholy in it like we’re actually two peas in a pod - she’s just hiding it better at the moment.

She welcomes me up into a towel, which I rub vigorously over my head, before drifting over to her vanity to wash out my mouth with baking soda. In the mirror, I watch her slowly strip her clothes off and fold them on the end of the bed. She lifts herself onto the edge, peeling her socks off with one hand - a moment of awkwardness intruding upon her grace. Perching there, she runs her fingers through her hair like she’s waiting for me.

I’m sober enough that I desperately crave a drink again. My hand shakes slightly as I put down the glass of water. Swallowing, I turn to her as she lies down, and even in my numb state she manages to take my breath away - creamy skin with that tiny puckered scar from her kids right above dark hair in a perfect triangle. Walking over, I get the view of her breasts too, how they spread softly from pink, rigid circles. Hell, she could be right: If this is what nihilism looks like, maybe I don’t need the booze.

Slowly I lower myself between her legs, necklace gathering on her skin before my cheek presses to her stomach. Fucking summer. It won’t even be dark for another three hours, and it makes me feel like a lazy ass for wanting to fall asleep right here on her inviting skin.

What she says next seems out of the blue to me, but Rachel’s brain is always whirring. “When Ben and I made you that appointment with the therapist after Afghanistan, did you actually go?”

I trace her bellybutton with a shaky finger. “I went that one time you drove me there. What’d you think - I went inside and hid in a closet for an hour?”

“Sounds conceivable.”

“Well, I think that poor shrink wanted to kill herself after seeing me. Can you imagine, trying to extract feelings from me? Had to be the longest hour of her life.”

I half laugh and roll over onto my back, an arm draped over my face. It’s funny to talk about but not so funny to relive. That poor lady - something generic like Dr. Smith - bore the brunt of my post-tour traumatized bullshit. She had this weird, jellyish stress ball thing I squeezed so hard it exploded. She kept asking what happened to me in that Taliban camp, and I told her: _Torture. What d’ya think?_ She was so frustrated with me, she pulled out some of her own hair by the end. It was wound around her fingers like dental floss. That’s the effect I have on people. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with me?

I regret nearly everything I’ve said to Rachel since entering her room this afternoon, so I decide to cut the small talk and bury myself in her as soon as possible. “How’s about you sit on my face, babe?”

“I promised _you_ the blowjob!” She leans over, exasperated, and breathes that woody-sweetness into my face. I feel hopelessly tired and try to yank her onto me. I don’t really want to tell her this, but I’m pretty worried I won’t be able to get it up for her - still too drunk.

“Manners are the only thing I have going for me,” I say instead.

“Says the man who came into my room and puked on my floor!”

“I didn’t get any on the floor!” I object. “C’mon. Get up here.” With my free hand, I pat my chest like a caveman and feel significant relief when she yields to my other hand, draping a knee over my neck and settling carefully down on my mouth.

Yep, _this_ is distraction. I lick slowly up her seam until she swells and drips into my lips. One of her hands fists in my hair to anchor herself, while the other slides over her breast and clamps on. I close my eyes on the world I hate and drink in the loveliest woman I know - the one I destroy little by little every day, but goddamn if I won’t make her feel how much she means to me… that is, when my feelings aren’t broken.

My tongue seeks out the heat of her entrance and pushes into that heady taste, before I finally migrate up to suck her clit. She comes almost instantly on my mouth, grinding so hard into my lips, they chafe against my teeth. When she rolls off trembling, I try to smile but those muscles are tired, so I just cover my face with a hand instead. I don’t want her to feel like I don’t care. I’m becoming more disembodied and hollow by the second.

Light fingers slide down my trail and stroke at my softness below. I cringe, because I’m insanely sensitive when I’m not erect. I remove my hand from my face to observe the golden waves, the rosy cheeks I cherish. Just focus on her, you asshole. That’s it.

“So Miles. What things can we think of to do for the rest of this week to distract you?” she asks, snuggling against my side and sucking on my left pec, while she continues kneading me below. The nipple stands proudly at attention, as if to mock my uncooperative dick.

“Hm?” I’m drifting into name-calling my pathetic excuse for a cock, because it’s only at about one-third mast, and I’m afraid she’ll just give up on me. But she repositions now, pushing apart my legs and settling between them on her knees, her eyes gazing at me clear and bright.

She douses her fingers in spit and jacks me indulgently, every now and then pausing to curl her tongue around my tip. I’m still taking too long, so she finally pops off and asks gently, “Miles, how can I help you?”

Shame burns my cheeks. She’s never had to deal with me like this before; it’s Bass who’s learned to navigate my pitiful slumps. Abruptly, I’m craving whiskey again.

“Shh,” she whispers reassuringly though I haven’t said anything. “What will make you come, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t usually call me terms of endearment either. My chest constricts. “I...um. Sometimes Bass will… you don’t have to…” Christ, I’m embarrassed and trying to pretend like red isn’t spreading down my chest.

But somehow that’s enough information for her. She buries a finger halfway in her mouth and then slides it down the seam between my balls to my entrance. She’s got nails though, so I prematurely tense up.

“Just the pad, okay?” My voice sounds so fucking ragged. I’m already closer.

She nods and pushes against me with her fingertip; I pulse responsively.

“Uhhhh,” I groan when she resumes sucking at my head, rubbing circles over my hole, burning but good. “Oh Shit, Rach. Shit, shit, shit.”

She pops off and encourages, “Miles,” as I squirt against her silky cheek, seed flecked in her hair, the pad of her finger half-buried in me, while my nerves fire all around her. Fuck me, it’s a relief.

We end up going to sleep at six-thirty in the evening - her, because she’s bored and me, because I’m fucking depressed. And it’s only the disruption of Bass that rouses me in the middle of the night, as he threads his naked body between us, brushing the warm cat off my chest. Huh - Bass. Always fighting to be in the middle. I let him nuzzle into my arms and bury his mouth against my pec, breath hot and wet.

“You smell half decent again. If a little like lady jizz,” he mumbles.

I make a sound like a laugh, cuz it’s all I got.

“You feeling any better?”

I shrug against him and change the subject. “Everything okay out there?”

“It’s hell doing two jobs, man.”

“Sorry.”

He sighs heavily and burrows into my armpit. I don’t know why, but Bass loves it in there. You’d think I’d smell pretty rancid all the time without conveniences like deodorant. I can tell Bass is miserable and exhausted, though, and that’s my fault for not being out there with him.

“Strausser?” I ask quietly.

“Hell,” Bass groans. “You know the candle shop on 7th and Market?”

“Yeah.”

“Tammy Bank, the owner? She accused him of raping her.”

I wince. Anything sounds believable with that psycho. “What was he doing that far from the stables?”

“I moved him to provost guard. Promoted him to corporal.”

“What? Why?” My voice almost breaks out of a whisper. Christ, Bass can be stupid.

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, we’re having a law and order problem outside the city walls. We need scary police types on the streets so we don’t get rebels moving into town. Strausser is adequately scary.”

I’m so fucking overwhelmed by this conversation, I honestly have no idea how to reason with him. “What’d you do about the rape charge?” I finally ask, my arms tense around Bass.

“I just couldn’t take anymore of this ‘he said, she said’ bullshit. I don’t have time for it. So new law: any citizen who wishes to accuse a militia soldier of a crime must produce a witness to said crime.”

“Bass… that’s idiotic. You think people usually rape women in front of an audience?”

“Miles, if your soldiers are out raping people, that’s _your_ problem - that is, when you decide to do your job again. Leave the citizenry to me.”

So that’s the kind of fuckery Bass gets up to in my absence. The problem is I don’t suggest an alternative solution, because I can’t think of one. And the next morning, when I feel Bass get out of bed, I don’t follow to fix his mess; I just roll over and hide my face in the pillow. Then when Rachel gets up hours later, I roll over again, if only to ignore the creepy stare of her cat, perched on the empty pillow.

It’s got to be half past noon when I finally convince myself to open my eyes on her sitting in the window seat, that damn little cat in her lap. She must sense life in the bed, because she closes the book she’s reading. I just make out the title, _Out of the Silent Planet_ , beneath a giant eyeball.

“Afternoon, sunshine. You hungry?” She gestures at a tray lying at her feet.

My mouth is parched, but I manage, “Mm.” I hope it sounded positive. Coming down off a bender like I’ve been on makes you really pissy. She’s going to deeply regret this thing she’s gotten herself into.

I gather a sheet at my waist and stumble over, plopping at her feet beside the tray and taking a swig of water from her mug before cramming a roll nearly whole into my mouth. I devour it entirely in seconds. When I look up, she’s arched an eyebrow.

“Sng-hng,” I mumble an apology for my uncouthness with my mouth full. I mean, I’m going on, what, day four of barely eating at this point and now without booze to distract me. I reach for the wedge of cheese next and that goes down in one great bite. My hand is already fumbling for the next morsel to shove in my face before I’ve even finished chewing.

“I heard you and Bass talking last night.”

I grunt.

“You disagreed with him.”

I squint up at her seawater blues, as the sun heats the glass of the windows uncomfortably beside us.

“You two used to argue more - when I first got here. Lately you seem more… passive. It’s not like you, Miles.”

I bark a laugh. “No?” I gesture at myself in my makeshift toga, cramming her lunch down my gullet because I couldn’t bothered to lift a finger to eat until I was nearly starved. “You’re right. I’m a _real_ go-getter.”

But, hell, she’s right: being passive with Bass has lately become my norm. I grimace and grumble at him, but I don’t stop him. And then I go ahead and enforce his dumbass rules. Death penalty for citizen armament? Yep, that was him. But I needed those guns, and I needed citizens to _not_ shoot at my men. So I made the initial frowny face, and then one year later I found myself defending it to Rachel like it was my brilliant idea. It’s a far too convenient part of our arrangement that I leave all the messy citizen shit to Bass, while I… what does Rachel like to call it? Play with my toy soldiers? I need a fucking drink.

“And what do you suggest I say to him?” I scowl.

“Say what you know is right, that that woman - Tammy Bank? - deserves a trial.” Her eyes penetrate me, and finally I let mine fall. I’ve saved not just a few women from a similar fate after the lights went out. Sick how men seem to default to that when order collapses.

I rise and just catch the sheet from dropping to the floor. “I’m gonna go back to my ro-”

She catches my wrist, the cat jumping down off her lap in as much of a huff as a cat can manage. “You’re going to go drink. You said you’d _try_ for me.”

“I….” Well, she’s right. I wouldn’t last a minute in there by myself. “I’ll stay then,” I decide abruptly, and thud back down, nearly upsetting the dishes.

She’s apparently satisfied enough with my decision that we waste the better part of the afternoon fucking again, her settling down onto my lap. I haven’t felt our skin meet on the inside of her in a long time, but because I’m so sad and pathetic, she lets me have her without a condom, pulling out just to come at the end. There’s nothing more comforting than that cushiony warmth hugging my dick. I think I could spend the rest of my days held by her body.

It’s not until the second day, that I wake up (again, well into the afternoon) and become almost instantly bored. When I ask her what she does all day, her eyebrows contract into a line and she chides, “I read. I play with Morella. I watch the world go by. I wait for you two to come home.”

My stomach wrenches at that - what we’ve reduced her to. The cruelty of it. She’s the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met, and yet she lives in a box where her only pleasures are the scraps Bass and I toss her when we remember to. It bothers me so much that I keep pressing, “You must do _something_ else.”

She sighs. “Sometimes Captain Lennox will challenge me to a game of chess if Bass lets him neglect his watch. And sometimes Bass and I will argue about his arbitrary rule of the Republic until he gets sick of me and puts me away.”

Christ. I don’t play chess, and I hate going head to head with Rachel over the Republic, so we just end up having a lot of sex. I mean, we fuck so much it starts to burn, and we actually have to put a moratorium on it till tomorrow.

On the third morning, I wake up before Rachel because my cheek edges into something cold and hard. A bottle of scotch. Lo and behold it’s a gift sent by my best friend to torment me. _Our girl tells me it’s been 3 days since you had a drink. Might I congratulate you with this small token of appreciation?_ it reads. Asshole. I close my fingers around the lean neck, tempted for a moment, before plunking it onto the hardwood floor and sliding it under the bed.

I’ll let Rachel have her victory on this one. It’s the least I can do. I turn over and gather her into my arms, warm as a little hibernating fox, kissing her cornsilk hair. It’s entirely meaningless, her drying me out, but when do I ever ask her what she wants? Never.

And you know what? I actually make good on my promise: I last all four days dry. I spend most of them with her in her room, drifting into Bass’ office a few times to write reports.

On Sunday night, she lets me know she’s literally won a bet. I feel almost proud of her, until I hear _what_ she’s won. She and I are seated at the long table in Bass’ empty office, feet tangled together, eating a dinner of roast beef, sweet potatoes, and cabbage. Bass is still out. We’ve barely seen him at all through this.

“Bass promised that if I kept you from drinking for the rest of this week, he’d let me go outside now and then. Under your watch or his, of course… and in suitable disguise.”

I choke on my water. “He what? No… it’s too dangerous. If anyone started to recognize you… People want us dead, Rachel. Rebels could infiltrate the city and-”

“You’re just afraid people will find out you keep me as your-”

“You’re wrong!” I interrupt her, unwilling to hear how she plans on characterizing our arrangement. “Fuck, Rachel. I know how cooped up you are, okay? I get it, and I’m sorry. But if something bad ever happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, because one of you will always be with me. And I’ll be in Militia uniform or some such. Stop worrying. Besides, it’s already been promised. You can’t take it back.” She leans back in her chair and folds her arms with decision. She’s snatched her feet away from mine.

I try to come up with another argument, but as usual, my mind is a perfect blank. Everyone I know is smarter than me. Huffing, I ask instead, “What would Bass have won?”

She smirks. “A blowjob every morning for a week.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “What? That lecherous asswipe.”

She snorts. “I hate to break it to you: That’s basically what you earned to stay dry.”

I glower from under my eyebrows. Fucking Bass. Letting Rachel outside is a terrible idea, and yet… I’ve seen firsthand what being a bird in a cage is doing to her. It’s bleeding her slow and painful.  

Admittedly, once Rachel turns in for the night, it only takes me fifteen minutes or so of trying to resist before I crack open Bass’ footlocker and pour myself the sweetest tasting scotch imaginable. It goes down easy, as I sit in one of the red armchairs, my feet propped up on the table. When a very bedraggled-looking Bass creaks open the door to his office and catches me, I do feel _some_ shame.

“So Rachel wins her wager, and you’re back to drinking one hour later? I _told_ her,” Bass comments without real venom. He snatches the bottle and perches on the table next to my feet, as he takes a swig.

“Told her what?” I run my fingers through my hair.

“That distracting you wouldn’t fix the problem. You, my friend, have a disease.” He takes a second gulp and passes me back the bottle. God, the man looks tiny tonight. He must have had a hell of a week running things alone.

“What, alcoholism?” I mutter without concern.

“No – well yes, that too. _Depression_. I’ve watched you suffer from it for as long as I’ve known you.”

His face falls, becoming shadowy in the dim light of the hurricane lamp, and he looks so sad, I grab his hand and pull his familiar weight onto my lap so that he’s straddling me.

“Hey. Thanks,” I mutter centimeters from his lips, changing the subject, because the one he’s on is useless to me.

“For what?” He’s so weary, his curls look tired. I slide my fingers into them and squeeze, as he closes his eyes against the pleasant pressure.

“For watching my men for me. I’ll get back out there tomorrow.”

“Feeling better?” He sounds almost bitter.

I shrug. “I think I’ve spent enough time with myself to last a lifetime.”

I guide him into my lips then, and we kiss, my hand still caught in his curls, our tongues relaxing against each other. We do that for a long time – just make out. It feels so nice. If I’m honest my dick is actually a bit tired from their wager, so I don’t try for more, and _he’s_ so wiped, neither does he. Eventually Bass breaks away and buries his face in my neck.

I know it’s not the right moment, but I say it anyway. “We’re going to get Tammy Bank her trial, Bass.”

Bass yanks his face away, looking betrayed. “That was _days_ ago. There’ll be no evidence-”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re setting a precedent that any woman who claims she was raped gets a trial. None of this witness bullshit you were trying to pull either.”

I feel Bass’ thighs tighten on my legs. “What... did Rachel get to you?” He presses two fingers to his forehead as if to quash an enormous headache.

“No, Bass. Waking up did.”


	15. Charcoal Sketch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charcoal drawing by lovesrogue36/carlier36
> 
> HUGE thanks to maywitch for her fantastic work in turning my charcoal sketch into a wonderfully aged, torn and signed artifact!
> 
> All fabulous military knowledge is courtesy of buttercups3 ;)

****

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: July 5, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: Kendra Chang  
Field Coordinates:

  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Charcoal Sketch _  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Hand-drawn sketch of a large tree and two men standing in front of a militia tent.  
Location: 2E [(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Heavily yellowed and faded, torn upper left corner, mild staining

 **Transcript of Written Document:**  
Signed “R. Matheson ‘20”

 

**Summer 2020: Rachel**

 

“Bass, I said no! You go _or_ I go. While Rachel is here with us, that’s what we agreed!” Miles’ voice booms and then contracts as he clearly struggles to rein himself in.

It’s late in the evening, my room lit only by the candle on the nightstand, and I have an ear pressed against the double doors to Bass’ office. One hand wrapped around the doorknob to keep it from rattling, I strain to hear their conversation.

I barely catch Bass’ response, though his voice cuts high-pitched on a few of the syllables. “President Foster said _both_ of us, brother.” The beginning of the next part is muffled but I do make out, “...trouble with General Butler, and that’s why she wants you there too.”

“If she can’t control her own fucking commanding general, then-”

“Well, I’m hardly one to judge!” Bass interrupts sharply. I think he follows it with ‘Keep your voice down,’ but I can’t be sure.

I really lean in for the next part, pressing my cheek into the wood of the door almost painfully.

“Miles, we’ve both got to go, and that means figuring out what to do with Rachel. We could put her back in a cell…”

My heart seizes in my chest and I feel almost more sad than angry at the suggestion. After everything that’s passed between the three of us, the threat of a cell is always riding in the undercurrent. It’s unavoidable: I _am_ a prisoner, and they are my jailers, however we try to spin it.

Miles, at least, voices my horror: “What!? No-”

“I don’t want that either. But you know and I know that she can’t stay up here without us. Too much of a liability. She’d be a damn sitting duck or,” Bass’ voice drops and I imagine him glancing to the door. “-for that matter, a flight risk. Also, I just don’t trust the rebel situation. The capital is fairly secure, but without us here…”

“You know I agree with all that. But Rachel… we can’t take her _with_ us! Into a combat zone?”

I take my name as my cue to enter. “Of course you can. I’ll come with you,” I announce, thrusting open the doors, as simply as if I’d been part of their conversation the entire time. And that’s the thing about the three of us - in a way, I _have_ been.

Bass is bunched up against his desk, arms crossed tightly, with Miles dominating his space, slouching threateningly down at his smaller best friend. I’m surprised sometimes by what Bass lets him get away with. I’d have pushed him back by now. He does retreat slightly in shock at the sight of me.

“Goddammit, Rachel. You’re not going to help your case,” Bass warns as he shakes his head.

“No,” Miles lifts his finger in the air like a perverse conductor. “Go on, Rachel. Tell us your masterful plan about how you can dress up in uniform and blend right in with the militia until the bullets start flying. Then what’ll you do? You’re not a trained soldier; you have no idea what happens out there.”

I’m about to open my mouth to protest, when Bass cuts me off with, “But Miles, there isn’t going to _be_ any combat. That’s the point. It’s an armistice. Foster’s coming out herself to discuss how to put our border skirmishing to rest. _She_ sure as hell doesn’t want to get shot - Kelly’s no soldier either.”

Miles’ voice drips with condescension. “So you’re saying you _want_ her in camp, under foot, judging every move we make when she doesn't know a damn thing about it?" _Her_ being me, which he emphasizes with a dismissive gesture.

“Do I get any say in this?” I demand, hands bunching into fists at my sides.

“No!” their voices ring together.

“So you’d consider putting me back in a cage before you’d take me with you? You seem to forget that I sucked you off yesterday, Miles, or that you fell asleep still inside me a couple of nights ago, Bass. You think you can just fuck me and then lock me back up? I’m not a _horse_ , gentlemen _;_ you can’t just put me away wet!”

Bass tries to pacify me, holding a hand out. “We’re not going to lock you up-”

“I heard you considering it!” I hiss.

Miles barrels back into the spat, verbally elbowing us apart. “Rachel, we’re not discussing this with you. You don’t understand the situation with Georgia, the potential threat of the rebels, what could happen to you if someone discovered you here.”

“Oh but in all your paternalistic wisdom, _you_ know what’s best for me?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Go fuck yourselves, the both of you. Especially you, Miles. You should be ashamed!” I slam the bedroom door behind me so that it rattles on its hinges. Morella scrambles under the armchair at the noise, narrow claws scratching at the hardwood, and I drive fingers into my hair with a loud groan of frustration.

When I wake up hours later, it’s pitch black in my room, Miles shaking my shoulder and urgently whispering my name. “Rach. _Rach_.”

I moan, rolling over and tugging the covers up with me. “What?” I mumble.

“Get up. You’re coming with us.”

Squinting up at him in the darkness, lips pursed, I push myself up on an elbow. “Oh _now_ you change your mind? In the middle of the night? I’m in my _pajamas_ , I haven’t packed and _you_ are an-”

“Clothes. Bag.” He thrusts a bundle of clothing and a duffel into my hands. “Molly packed for you.”

I scoff but throw the covers off, scrambling up out of bed. He’s a _dick_ but I’m not going to miss my opportunity to leave the Hall. What I wouldn’t give for fresh air. Even tired feet and sunburn, to be honest. Miles stands there tapping his foot while I quickly dress, combing fingers through my hair and lacing my boots haphazardly in haste. He plants a hand in the small of my back as I turn towards the door and sling the bag over my shoulder.

“I take it you still aren’t happy about this,” I snap, letting him manhandle me out into the hallway.

“Nope. Not exactly my idea.” Miles holds me to his side though as we walk out to the wagons. He hesitates, opening his mouth as if to speak before bundling me into a wagon with only a squeeze of my hand.

It takes us a little over a week of tedious, bumpy travel to reach the rendezvous point at Eden, North Carolina. My attempts to read leave me motion sick and so I begin spending my days stretched along the hard wood of the concealed wagon bed, sucking in fresh air at the open flaps and daydreaming. A few days into the trip, Lennox brings me a little box of vine charcoal he burnt over the campfire for me and I take to sketching the camp around me and the landscape. I draw the trees, the road behind us and, at night when the soldiers are setting up camp, the tents I can see from my secluded perch.

Every evening when the boys do finally let me out of my mobile prison, I make one of them accompany me on a walk in the woods, noticing then the stiffness in Miles’ knee or Bass’ slightly bowed gait from the long days in the saddle. A happy effect of the Blackout, (if there is such a thing), is the return of the fireflies, which had so dwindled from environmental disarray before nature reclaimed the Earth. Our starry companions are joyously sociable - will settle on your hand and in your hair, buzzing, glowing, before zig-zagging off to find some other traveler to please.

The days render me so profoundly bored that I can think of little to say on these nighttime treks, inquiring blandly after army discipline or supply lines. Every once in a while, one of the boys will report back on a minor infraction - a straggler, a practical joke (such as when a private left his lousy jacket on his rival’s pillow. Apparently, the troops thought it was funny until Doc Arora announced that lice carry typhus, and if they want to play games with their mortality they might as well shoot each other instead.)

When my torpor tempts me to despair, I remember that Miles and Bass considered putting me back in a cell. Not only does that make me grateful to be outside, but it boils my blood enough to ignite a row with whoever’s keeping me company, even if we’re up against a tree, my fingers in his hair and his knee between my thighs like a couple of young lovers. The boys are both too tired to protest when I inevitably push them off and stomp away through the grass, fingernails cutting into my palms.

When we turn in, I stay in their shared tent. It makes me laugh that the boys imagine their love affair isn’t on display for the whole militia to see. And they bring such finery on campaign - another source of amusement. The ground in their tent ( _our_ tent) is lined in carpets and there are multiple tables for planning their little war games. There are leather armchairs, one for each of them, (I’m supposed to sit on the bed or a lap, apparently), a vanity with a mirror and a large wardrobe, filled with spare uniforms and the few things Molly packed for me. It’s really a travesty that they expect their men to haul all of this hundreds of miles but I am grateful for the relative comforts of home.

 _Home_. Christ. Is Philly home? I try not to dwell on that thought.

Most absurd of all, though, is the bed: the same elegantly masculine brass bed from Bass’ private room in the Hall. I’m certain it’s the same one, though I’ve only been in his room a few times. He must have had a couple of his men disassemble it and, what, put it together each night when we make camp? By the time I’m bundled from my wagon to the tent, the camp is essentially set up so I’m never quite sure how this little temporary palace comes to be.

Every night, Lennox delivers me to the tent where I’m greeted with a glass of whiskey and two exhausted generals. There’s usually some mumbled conversation and a couple of drinks get knocked back while I sip reluctantly on my first. At some point, the boys strip down to their white undershirts and boxers and I change into my pajamas. To be honest, I’m not sure why we bother, but we keep up the pretense, at least until we crawl into bed and nestle under the knitted covers. Our clothes doesn’t last long after that; they usually end up tangled somewhere at our feet while we grope and stroke at each other.

Granted, the sex isn’t our most stellar. The boys are so tired that one night Miles literally falls asleep with his hand still wrapped around Bass’ limp penis - neither of them finished. Miles is agitated enough on campaign that he tosses and turns, all sharp edges and knobs, so that Bass and I take turns prodding him till he flops off the bed and curls up on the dirty carpet like our rejected pet. I would almost feel sorry for his stiff neck, if I weren’t still mad at him for treating me no better than he treats Zeppelin (or worse: he would never threaten to leave her home ‘for her own good.’ She’s actually _useful_ to him.) _What am I, jealous of a horse?_ For god’s sake.

We’re camped in Eden for only one night, passed out in Bass’ bed together, when what I imagine to be Miles’ predictions come true: fighting breaks out with me there, needing ‘protection.’ The relative peace is broken at dawn by a roll of thunder that resonates in my teeth, my bones. And then… shouting. Miles and Bass have scrambled out the sides of the bed and are hastily dressing.

“Fuck is going on? What happened to cease fire?” Bass gasps, dazed enough that he tries to thread his foot through the arm of his jacket.

Miles doesn’t answer, only shakes his head. He doesn’t even bother with his underwear, and Bass almost forgets his swords before I manage to fumble across the bed, holding the sheets about my breasts, and pass them to him. I meet his clear blue eyes and find something there I’ve never seen before - a disconcerting mixture of vacant and restless. I don’t think I could stand to see that look in Miles’ tragic brown eyes, so I don’t check. In a matter of minutes, he’ll be responsible for the thousands of men outside of this tent. By the time he slips out after Bass, he’s surely already made hundreds of decisions that will affect whether some live or die.

When I’ve dressed, I slide my palm along the canvas flaps and just part them, demure as a nineteenth-century lady lifting her skirts. I’m enveloped by a strange medley of jumbled time - period muskets alongside M-16s. Soldiers are crawling like blue ants over the hillside and amongst the trees, lining a cracked asphalt road on their bellies. The popping of their guns is punctuated by the occasional boom of cannon. Smokeless powder and black gunpowder intermingles sulphur with some other unidentifiable chemical pungency. I’m about to open the flaps wider to get a better look at the spectacle, when Lennox’s warm hand falls on mine.

“No, Rachel. You have to stay here. We’re all in danger,” he murmurs, squeezing my fingers familiarly.

“I thought there was an armistice?”

Lennox steps with me into the tent. “We don’t know what happened, but my orders are to guard you with my life.”

The hours pass long and tense, as Lennox pretends to write, his pen mostly dangling, and I alternate between pacing and curling on the bed to stare blankly at the pages of first my sketchbook and then a paperback novel Molly shoved in my bag. Finally, a voice calls to the captain from outside the tent, and he abruptly excuses himself.

When he reenters, his face is sheet-white.

“What is it?” my voice trembles, as my brain darts to images of Miles or Bass drained of blood and flung into a mass grave with the bodies of their men.

“My s-son. Andrew. He’s been hit.”

My hand flies to my mouth. “Is it bad?” I whisper, eyes wide.

“I’m not sure.” His lip trembles, and he looks like he might be sick.

“Well you have to go to him! Now!”

“I can’t leave you. I have my orders, I… can’t leave you.”

“Take me to Doc Arora’s tent,” I demand, immediately stripping off my blouse and shrugging on the spare militia shirt hanging over the chair. “He knows me.”

Lennox averts his eyes, lips pursed and hands balled into fists at his sides. “But there are wounded men in th-”

“Lennox: now!” He hesitates but reaches for my arm, face shifting violently between fear and uncertainty. I know how he feels all too well.

My feet are numb as Lennox leads me out into the blistering afternoon sun across to one of three hospital tents. What lies within is a terrible sight. Doc Arora wears an apron soaked with crimson, like a common butcher. He has only two medics assisting him - both militia women - dashing back and forth to bring tools, bandages, and hook up IVs. Soldiers are writhing, their faces twisted in piteous agony, lips foaming with blood, as they call out for water, for mercy, for their mothers. I turn away briefly and squeeze my eyes shut.

“I can’t leave you here!” Lennox insists desperately.

“You will. Now go find Andrew!”

Lennox grinds his teeth but quickly advances upon the doctor and must explain the situation, because the doctor nods. When Lennox departs, Doc hands me a needle and thread. “Know how to sew, Private Jones?” he says in that serene lilt, lifting an eyebrow.

I steady my quivering lip. “Yes.”

“Good. There is alcohol, candles on the side table - sterilize your equipment and see if you can return that man’s fingertip to its rightful place.”

I pin my hair up on top of my head with a spare pencil and sit beside him, sterilizing a needle in the candle flame. “What’s your name, son?” I ask, leaning in close to hear his answer. The sheet under his hand is soaked in blood, and his fingertip is sliced nearly clean off.

He coughs into a filthy hand, eyes squeezing shut. “Pr-Private Jackson, ma’am.”

“Well you’re going to be just fine, Private Jackson. We’ll have you out of here in no time.” I thread the needle carefully and tie it off with two fingers. For a moment, I feel like I’m fourteen again, helping Dad stitch up a migrant worker injured in the fields. He was so grateful to have full use of his hand again, he brought us bushels of corn for the rest of the summer. “Where are you from, Private Jackson?”

“Maine, ma’am. Parents own a fishery.”

“Are you going to take over the family business some day?” I keep him talking while I tie a couple of neat stitches along his fingertip, reattaching it to the rest of his hand. He’s only the first in a long line of appendages and phalanges I sew back together before the day’s horrors are even half over.

Hours later, the two female medics have been called out to the field, and I’m alone with the doctor holding closed an abdominal wound while he attempts to seal it. There’s a commotion at the entrance to our tent. When I see that it’s Miles, my heart nearly stops at the thought that he might be wounded, but he and Jim are supporting the blonde man I recognize as their chief cavalry officer: Colonel Butch Henderson. My eyes travel down to the man’s right lower leg and register only meat and grizzle. It appears attached to the knee by mere strings.

“Private! More pressure,” Doc urges me, and I push down upon the poor fellow on the table beneath me. Apparently, I blend into camp more naturally than Miles assumed I would, as he has yet to notice me.

“Doc!” Miles grunts without looking up, as he and Jim lose their grip on the colonel. The lanky man sinks to the ground with a heart-wrenching moan.

“One moment, General!” is Doc’s even-toned response.

“Doc, we don’t have a moment!”

“You do, sir, I can clearly see his wound from here.”

Miles grumbles but reaches to his belt to extract a canteen of water and dip it to Henderson’s lips. Jim tries to reposition the leg, but that only draws Butch’s attention back to it, his eyes bulging in sudden realization.

"Don't let them take my leg, General. I need it to ride,” he begs Miles, grabbing desperately at Miles’ collar.

Miles grimaces, clapping Butch on the shoulder in a gesture that is part comfort and part holding the poor man up. "Nah, we'll get you a nice peg and mount you on your horse like a Civil War officer. They rode with one leg all the time."

Jim chimes in with impressive cheer, especially for a man who never smiles. "Yeah, the ladies love peg legs, Butch."

My eyes skim to Miles’ face who fixes Jim with a steely look. Is it possible that Jim is that dense? I’d figured Henderson as gay the moment I laid eyes on him, blushing at Bass’ drunk, flirtatious advances. He has a classic refinement and disregard for the silly masculinity that runs rampant in the militia. Of course, I _am_ stereotyping, but I confirm in a moment that I’m correct.

"I hope not. That would... complicate my life considerably," Henderson mumbles and strains a smile.

Realization breaks across Jim’s once again somber face, and he stutters, "Oh, sorry, I uh, didn't know."

Miles plants his hands on his hips. “Jim, get back out there and make sure the line is holding. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes, sir!” Jim barks and zips through the flaps back out into the fray.

Miles bends low to the colonel and digs his hands under the man’s arms to help him up. “Guys probably dig wooden legs too, Butch. Don't sweat it."

It’s somehow painfully touching. Indeed it strikes me as odd that the commanding general of the militia is still here with a wounded comrade.

“Doc?” Miles asks, barely supporting Henderson’s now vertical weight. Miles looks as if he’s getting anxious to get back into the action, back to his men.

“Right over here, sir.” The doctor pats an empty table, and at last Miles’ eyes drift up to me and widen instantly, as the three of us heft the cavalry officer into position.

“Ra-” he begins in rapt horror.

Doc Arora interrupts, “Private Jones is helping me to nurse the men, while Captain Lennox attends to his wounded son,” as he gestures at me for his instruments.

“Goddammit!” Miles looks about ready to court-martial Lennox and rage undeserved obscenities at Doc. I avoid his eyes while I move to the doctor’s side. I hadn’t stopped to think how angry he would be but, then, I would have made Lennox go after his son anyway.

“Sir! Enough. I have to take the colonel’s leg. Please don’t startle him.”

Miles’ almost-black eyes widen further still as Henderson groans and grabs for his general’s jacket again, bunching it in a sweaty fist. I smooth my hand over Butch’s sweat-beaded brow, ignoring the look Miles is giving me.

“Sir, no ether. I want to get back to my men!” the colonel pleads. My heart aches at that, actually. They’re constantly worried about traitors like Lieutenant Silver but the boys forget what loyal officers they _do_ have. Some of these men would happily step in front of a bullet for either of them.

“Don’t be a fool, Butch. You’re not going back out. You’re about to lose your leg.”

“General, do you need to get back out? I have to do this now,” Doc says urgently.

Miles looks torn, wavering from foot to foot as he glances briefly at me, but then appears to come to a decision. His shoulders straighten and he mutters, “No… the men are digging in. I’ll stay.” I wonder what decided it for him.

Butch looks up at me with pained, pleading eyes, and I touch the backs of my fingers to his cheek before fitting a small pad of leather between his teeth so he won’t bite his tongue. He’s losing color by the second but he gives me a miniscule, grateful nod, sinking his teeth into the leather and all but crushing my hand in his.

“Then, if you both will hold him down,” Doc requests.

We do - Miles and I together. We hold down this sweet, graceful man while he parts with his leg, screaming around the leather in his mouth, tears dribbling down his cheeks. I make sure to watch his face and not the ghastly spectacle below. It’s Miles who has to exert the real force on his body to keep him still. I don’t know if Miles watches the leg come off. I don’t want to know.

When Doc asks for my help on the tourniquet, I nearly lose it, but by the time I’m helping wrap it, I regain eerie calm. I feel almost otherworldly as I wind the bandage around his sanitized stump.

Miles grunts, "Give him some morphine, Doc."

Butch whimpers, shaking his head with surprising ferocity for a man who’s just lost a limb. “No, sir! Please! I’ve got to get back out!”

Though Miles’ hands are huge and on occasion extraordinarily cruel, he rests one on his friend’s forehead with the gentleness of a mother. "Sorry, Butch. I'm a selfish bastard, and I don't want to watch you suffer."

Miles nods at the doc, who is already busy hanging an IV. We manage all of this in under fifteen minutes. With a look of regret at Butch and then at me - his lips actually tremble with unformed words, though I can’t begin to imagine what he actually wants to _say_ to me - Miles is gone.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of blood and antiseptic. A couple of Butch’s own men, (troopers, Doc said), moved him back to his own tent in the hour or so after the fighting trickled to a stop. The sun has long since set by the time I see any familiar faces again. I’m seated at the bedside of a Sergeant Grey, a candle flickering over his pale features and his hand resting limply in mine. There’s a murmured conversation and Doc steps outside, replaced moments later by Lennox. His jacket is torn, there’s blood smeared on his forehead and his eyes… they’re just as exhausted and blank as everyone else’s have been.

It’s disconcerting to see him like this, the _soldier_ fresh out of battle, not only the kind, gentle man who takes his losses in chess with grace and never complains about being a glorified babysitter despite his rank. “Doc’s going to check the other hospital tents,” he announces, his voice ragged and tired as he drags himself across the room to pull up a chair beside me.

“A… Andrew?” I ask hesitantly, fearing the worst.

“He’ll be okay.” I breathe a sigh of relief as Lennox slumps forward, elbows on the bed. “Just a graze. I got dragged into the fighting myself once I was out there. General Matheson’s going to be furious.”

I wince, reaching out to tug on his torn sleeve, instinctively checking for any wounds underneath. “He already is. He brought Butch in earlier.”

Lennox runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Heard about that. Awful shame. Butch is really a good guy.”

Sergeant Grey moans in his drugged sleep, head lolling on his pillow. “And who’s this poor guy?” Lennox asks, laying a hand over mine, our wedding bands both dull and dirty.

“Sergeant Grey from New York. He’s not gonna make it. Internal bleeding.” I heave a sigh, blinking back hot, stinging tears. Honestly, they’re more from sheer exhaustion than actual pain for the boy. “He’ll make twenty-two today just in this tent.”

There’s a rustling at the tent flap, and Lennox hangs his head. “Here they come,” he mutters.

“You did nothing wrong,” I snap under my breath but he pulls back, straightening his filthy jacket anyway.

“I disobeyed a direct order,” he argues, standing just as Miles and Bass stumble into the tent. They both look about ready to fall down but Miles draws himself up to his full height at the sight of Lennox, glaring.

“ _You_. How dare you disregard my orders!” Miles barks. I have to fight to keep from rolling my eyes. “What in the hell were you thinking? You are _damn_ lucky she is okay!”

Bass’ shoulders sag, and my eyes flicker to his left hand, hanging at an uncomfortable angle. My stomach lurches and I jump up, moving around the bed to him. He twists his wrist with a grimace so I can see it’s not broken, just badly cut, blood crusted on the back of his hand. “S’not life-threatening,” he mumbles, leaning a shoulder into me. “But thanks for actually noticing.”

I do roll my eyes at that, leading him over to a free bed and sitting him on the edge.

“I know, sir,” Lennox is saying. “I never should have left Mrs. Matheson.”

“Damn straight you shouldn’t have!” Miles jams a finger into his chest and then apparently decides that isn’t good enough because he pushes him back with the flat of his hand.

“ _Miles!_ ” I chide, ignoring Bass’ groan of protest as I leave him again to tug on Miles’ arm. “He had to go find his son. Andrew was hurt!”

“It’s a _war zone_. Lots of people’s sons get hurt!” Miles growls at me. I hate when he does that, treats me like an ignorant civilian. “Captain _Lennox_ had _orders_.”

“And his orders were to make sure I was safe. Which he did! I was with Doc, for god’s sake, actually being _useful!_ ” Some of the men start to stir at the racket we’re making, and Miles presses his lips together, dropping his voice.

“But he left his post! There’s no excuse for that!” He’s practically spitting at me now and Lennox runs a hand over his face, looking like he might pass out right here, he’s so tired.

Before any of us can speak again, Bass pipes up from the bed in a hoarse stage whisper meant to keep from waking any of the other patients. “Captain Lennox? You disobeyed orders but still managed to fulfill your duties. We’ll, I don’t know, dock your wages for the week. You understand. You’re dismissed; go get some rest.”

Lennox squeezes my shoulder, murmuring a quick good night before stumbling out of the tent, all too happy to take his president’s orders over his general’s shouting. Sighing, I sink down beside Bass and set to cleaning his wound. It’s a slice across the back of his hand, cut down to the bone, but it’s fairly even so I just wash it out with antiseptic and set to stitching it up.

Miles groans, running his hands through his hair and pacing behind me. I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head, even just when they flick in my direction. I’m not sure if he’s more agitated by Lennox, by Bass’ wound or by me caring for Bass, but either way, he can just suck it up. Bass flexes his hand under my careful attentions. “You make a pretty good nurse.”

“Dad was a doctor, remember. I’ve stitched a few cuts in my time.” Nothing like this, of course. Today was a wholly new experience and one I hope never to repeat. I tie the stitches off and wind a strip of gauze carefully over and under his thumb.

When I’m finished, Bass admires my handiwork with a wince while I stand to wash out the cloth I used to wipe away his blood. “Well, it’s not going to be a sexy scar but it’ll do. We might have to hire you full time, Rach.”

“Like hell,” Miles growls instantly before a flush spreads over his face as he realizes Bass was kidding. He glares at both of us while I clean the instruments Doc left out. The doctor returns not ten minutes later and exchanges a few words with the boys, no doubt giving them the statistics: how many dead, how many injured.

The camp is near silent as we trudge back over to our tent in silence, nearly everyone sound asleep, or passed out where they stood. War is exhausting, I’ve discovered. Miles holds open the entrance for Bass and me and, stepping inside, I lean over to light a few candles on the dining table.

I start to strip off my blood-stained shirt, turning to Bass to ask, “So what happened to the armistice?”

“Technically nothing. Foster’s general was acting without her sanction. As soon as she arrived, she had him arrested and sent out a white flag. It’s all over.” Bass plops on the edge of the bed to try to take off his boots, but it’s clear his hand is in agony. Before I have a chance to think, Miles is stooped below him, methodically unlacing and pulling them off for his best friend.

Miles grumbles quietly more to himself than to us, “Yeah, eighty-eight needless deaths and at least a hundred additional wounds, including one of my best officers, but it was _nothing._ ”

He tosses Bass’ boots over in the corner and then stands up, shoving his hands in his pockets. I drop my ruined, bloody shirt in the hamper under the table and round on Miles. “And just _think_ about that, Miles! You got to spend a quarter of an hour with your best man when he was injured just because you damn well wanted to, but you would punish Lennox for only trying to find out if his son was still _alive?_ ”

I sound more shrill than I really intended, but I was already pissed at him this whole trip for the way he’s treated me. This thing with Lennox is just the last straw.

Miles flinches but manages to glare down at me anyway, both of us oblivious to Bass’ pillow-muffled complaints. “Don’t start with me. This may seem arbitrary or cruel or some other bullshit to you, but this is how it works in the military. Disobey orders, there’s a punishment. _Period_ ,” he growls, his face shadowed in the dim tent.

“You’re a bully. _Period_ ,” I counter snidely, stripping out of my trousers and sinking down at the vanity in my underthings. I huff, glaring at my streaky reflection and, yanking the pencil out of my hair, grab the brush to run it through painful snarls.

“Huh, real mature. And you say _I’m_ a child.” Miles wrenches his jacket and shirt off, discarding them in a pile on the dirt floor. “Son of a bitch, Rachel, you don’t know the first thing about this. Just stay the hell out of it.”

Bass heaves a sigh into his pillow, enormous and prolonged enough to get our attention. “Are you two finished? You’re making my hand throb. You know some of us are in excruciating pain over here.”

Miles vaguely rolls his eyes, but he asks, “You want me to go ask Doc for something?”

“No. I want you _and_ you to get your skinny asses over here and comfort me.” He must see my reluctance to forgive Miles written plainly on my face, because he adds, “Rachel, I know what a dick Miles is; Lennox knows what a dick Miles is. But Miles is just worried about you. You think he’s trying to throttle your independence or whatever, but he just doesn’t want you to get hurt. A lot of good people went down today. You saw what happened to Butch. Can you guys just make up?”

Miles’ dark eyes drag from Bass to me, and though he looks vaguely miffed that Bass is speaking for him, he says to me, “He’s right, you know. Every time I’m not with you, I’m imagining the worst.”

“I’m not a china doll!”

“Oh believe me, Rachel, I know how far from a china doll you are. I just can’t… I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

Pressing my lips together as I tug on a particularly ratty knot, I avoid his eyes altogether, a little terrified of what I’ll see there. He’s so passionate, so emotional, but it simmers under the surface, buried just far enough that I forget from time to time. And then he shocks me with it.

Clearing my throat, I dump the hairbrush on the vanity, giving up for now on my war-torn hair. “Let’s just not fight, okay? We’re all exhausted.”

Miles’ shoulders sag and he over to the bed and sits next to Bass, unfastening the buttons on his jacket and helping him out of his clothes. I watch him undress Bass, half-transfixed and more than a little disturbed by the power they have over me. By the time I finally pull my pajamas on and roll onto the other side of Bass, Miles is nestled under the covers in his boxers and undershirt, an arm flung over Bass’ chest.

I pull the scratchy wool blanket and cool sheets up over my shoulder, sinking into the pillow. Lifting Bass’ injured hand, I lay it carefully on his chest, and he rests his cheek on the top of my head in silent thanks. Miles reaches over, his fingers brushing my arm and I crack a reluctant eye open at him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “You’re still wrong. But I’m sorry I yelled.”

“And pushed Lennox.”

Bass smirks, eyes closed, and Miles heaves an irritated sigh. “And I’m sorry I pushed Lennox.”

“And will apologize to him tomorrow.”

His head shoots up, and he glares at me. “I will do nothing of the kind-” he half-shouts before Bass and I both chuckle. Miles slumps back down to the bed with a grunt. “Assholes.”

“All right, you don’t have to apologize. But go easy on him, would you? Walter’s been so good to me, and you two don’t appreciate him.”

There’s some grumbling but the fight seems to go out of all of us as the comfort and lure of our warm bed and familiar bodies dawns on us. We’re all three asleep in minutes and it’s dawn before any one of us stirs.

I blink away blood-soaked dreams, loosening my fists in the sheet as I roll over in search of a strong, warm body. The tent is bathed in soft, gray light, sometime just after dawn, I think, and my eyes come into focus on Miles kissing Bass tenderly, his hand wrapped tightly around Bass’ shiny erection.

Bass gazes adoringly into Miles’ eyes. It can be a bit disconcerting to see how much Bass loves Miles, verging on the unhealthy, the obsessive, but it’s sort of a mainstay of my life at this point. I’m barely awake but I nestle deeper into Bass’ shoulder and, licking two of my fingers, caress them over his slit above Miles’ grasp. I tease the vulnerable skin beneath his ear with my tongue, relishing Bass’ jagged breath. He parts with Miles’ lips to crane over to mine. He tastes like Miles until he exhales - then he’s all citrus again.

Miles has slid down between Bass’ legs to mouth his cock, lips migrating all over the silky skin there and occasionally over my fingers that continue to work Bass’ tip. I suppose at some point, Miles takes to massaging Bass open, because his moaning into my mouth becomes breathless and clipped.

When Bass turns on his side to face me and Miles stretches along behind, slicking himself, he whispers to Bass, “Ready?” There’s always this moment of verbal consent with them that makes me envious, because they never do it with me. Granted, anal sex is different - intellectually I know that - but I can’t help but feel they somehow deprive me of the intimacy of their words.

Bass “yeahs” and covers his face with his wounded hand as Miles sinks into him, one arm hooked underneath Bass’ chiseled bicep, fingers (the nails still caked with blood) spread over the smooth chest. Miles’ eyelids flutter closed as he groans and nuzzles Bass’ ear. I tug carefully on his wrist, the white bandage standing out stark on still-dirty skin, and he drops his hand slowly.

I can’t help the small smile that flickers over my lips, Bass’ mouth fallen open in half-delirium.

“Condom?” he rasps at me. “In my pants pocket.”

I fumble for his pants under the covers and dig the condom out, ripping it open and leaving the wrapper. When I burrow back into his arms, he groans softly and buries his face in my shoulder as I roll the condom on. Kicking my pajama pants off, I suck two fingers into my mouth and slide them between my legs; Bass is usually quite a gentleman but he’s clearly too out of his head this morning.

Reaching for his straining cock, I’m confronted with the rough skin of Miles’ knuckles and I lift my head to find his eyes. He rests his chin on Bass’ shoulder, eyebrows knit together sorrowfully as he thrusts, slow and deep. Threading Bass into me, I wince a little, not quite as wet as I’d like to be, and Miles notices in a second. His fingers dig into my waist, dragging me in tight and forcing Bass deeper. I swallow a whimper of protest, my bare foot sliding over Miles’ calf so our bodies tangle together deliciously.

Miles grinds his knuckles into my clit and I stretch up to meet his lips, tasting dried copper there, my hair falling in Bass’ face. By the time we part, I’m gasping, crushing my breasts to Bass’ chest and clinging to his bare shoulder.

Bass groans into the curve of my neck, mumbling something that sounds like, “Suffocating me,” but we all know his protests are only vanity. He loves to be smothered between us, claimed on either side. Miles may hold the power in this threesome, but Bass relishes the attention most.

I pull back an inch or two though, catching his lips and moaning at the feel of his tongue, soft and warm and wet, licking into my mouth. He curls his injured hand in the small of my back, silky pajamas riding up over his wrist and the rough bandage there scraping against my skin. Miles runs a hand down the length of my bare thigh and I can’t help moaning, clenching hard on Bass even as he’s bucking into me, driven forward by Miles’ thrusts from behind.

We come in quick succession, tugging on each other’s hair and limbs and leaving angry, red marks that are as much ‘glad you’re alive’ as they are ‘thanks for the orgasm.’

We lay there on each other until the sweat has dried uncomfortably on our skin and it’s light enough outside that Miles can no longer ignore the war zone just outside our tent flap. He stumbles out of bed and splashes water on his face from the pitcher sitting beside us before tugging on a fresh uniform. I suppose that is the point of the ridiculously oversized wardrobe: I hadn’t considered previously that they probably ruin their uniforms with blood and dirt and sweat on a regular basis.

He leans down, painting a sigh across our cheeks as he kisses us goodbye, and straightens his shoulders, marching out into the early morning sunshine. Bass runs his fingers through my still-tangled hair and motions to the vanity, seemingly reluctant to follow Miles out into the fading carnage. “Come on, I’ll brush your hair for you.”

Pulling just my panties back on, I lift myself out of bed and pad across the dirty carpet to retrieve my brush. When I return, he’s sitting up in bed, knees spread, and I settle in between his legs, tugging the covers back up to our waists. He takes the brush from me with his uninjured right hand, drawing it through my hair again and again until it’s smooth. He’s gentle on the knots, tugging carefully through each of them. It’s not a daily ritual with us, but it is one I enjoy; Miles has always been better at tangling my hair than caring for it, though admittedly, I greatly enjoy that as well.

When he’s finished, all too soon, he presses a soft kiss to my shoulder, arms winding around me. “I should get out there too. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your wagon.”

We get dressed reluctantly and I tuck my hair up under a cap before stepping out of the tent into controlled chaos. When he thinks no one is looking, he slides the elegant fingers of his non-injured hand over the small of my back. Everything around us is wet with dew - the branches that bend low to us, laden with green leaves, the blades of grass poking up through the red clay, even the air, heavy and stifling, though the day has barely begun. I stop suddenly in my tracks, transfixed by the sight of Miles, a cigar dangling from between his scruffy lips, his forest green uniform fresh and sharp in contrast to the devastation at his feet as he directs soldiers this way and that.

I raise an eyebrow at Bass; I’ve never seen Miles smoke in my life.

Bass shrugs back at me. “He always smokes a cigar when he wins.”

There’s some young kid planting a Monroe Republic flag on the little hill behind him and it flaps in the slow, sticky breeze. Miles scrawls his signature on some sheaf of paper Felix is shoving in his face as he chews on his cigar. He _does_ look the victorious general with smoke rings around his head and men scurrying to do his bidding. All he needs is a blonde clinging to his arm. (I suppose that would be me. Or Bass.)

My eyes shift to the weary soldiers burying their dead. The men fling stiff bodies into mass graves like so many overstuffed sacks of fertilizer. There is something so cold about it, I put my hand to my mouth.

Bass nods absent-mindedly and doesn’t appear to properly think through what he says next: “Lucky we’re getting to bury ‘em right away. At Trenton the bodies sat out so long, they bloated to nearly twice their size. By the time we got around to them, the men would literally have to toss them and run before they explo-” He catches himself there. His weird irreverence clearly has him slightly chagrined. “I, uh… sorry. I’ve seen a lot of bodies in my time. I know it’s… hard at first.”

I regard him quizzically for a moment, uncertain whether I’m impressed or appalled by his nonchalance.

“I’ve seen it too, Bass. All over the cities, hundreds, even thousands of bodies after the Blackout… a stench so overpowering it nearly took your breath away. But this… it’s like it’s just another day. For you, they stopped being horrifying and became a burden.”

Bass swallows, gesturing at the wagon, and I climb up, perching on the edge with my legs dangling off the back. “Well, at least we bury our dead. And we’ll honor them with a salute when we get home for giving their lives to the Republic. Those millions gone in the Blackout? They died for nothing.” The bitterness of the word ‘nothing’ rings somewhere too raw in my chest, and I can’t look at his face, so I stare instead at his mangled hand that I so carefully wrapped.

He lays it over mine on my knee and plants a foot in the wagon frame, dragging himself up with his good hand braced on the arched wooden bow. His warm breath ruffles the strands of hair escaping my cap as he buries his nose against my neck, inhaling me. I can’t say I blame him. The battlefield smells horrific and the boys claim I always smell like strawberries. He confirms my suspicions with a soft sigh against my skin, dry lips faintly brushing the column of my throat. “Wish I could smell you all day instead of-” Bass pulls back, dropping back down to his feet. “Stay out of sight, Rachel. I’ll see you tonight. Walk in the woods?”

I nod, not quite trusting my voice, and watch him march back into the heart of camp, back into the after-fray. I’m not sure how they managed it but somehow my duffel bag is packed and sitting beside me in the wagon; Lennox or someone must have run ahead of us with it. I dig in the bag for my sketchbook and the box of charcoal sticks and, tossing my militia cap on the wooden floor, I lay out on my stomach and draw what I see: a sad, bloody little world I’m responsible for, more so than these often kind and frequently cruel men with their guns and swords and ether could ever claim.


	16. Book, Under Two Flags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This awesome graphic was created as usual by our image-maestro: Maywitch! Many thanks, bb!
> 
> Those in the know will recognize the book featured in this chapter as resting on Bass’ desk in canon. You may read it by clicking the link below (warning: it's terrible!). If you’re of the literary criticism persuasion, check out the scholarly assessment of its homoeroticism on p. 125-6: The Forgotten Female Aesthetes by Talia Schaffer. As T says, Ouida was just a Victorian Era slash fangirl. ;P
> 
> [Under Two Flags](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3465/3465-h/3465-h.htm)
> 
> [Forgotten Female Aesthetes](http://books.google.com/books?id=lfEh4TUvhFgC&pg=PA125&lpg=PA125&dq=homoeroticism+in+under+two+flags&source=bl&ots=GFLuypvLaQ&sig=A1zI1mNaq5Y6m-p-m26LOEvtZsw&hl=en&sa=X&ei=yWM4U5WyKMmvsQTR24DgBQ&ved=0CDoQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q=homoeroticism%20in%20under%20two%20flags&f=false)

****

**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

Date: June 9, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: George Ryland  
Field Coordinates:

  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Book, _Under Two Flags_ _  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Book entitled _Under Two Flags_ by Ouida, publisher J. H. Sears  & Company. Title page inscribed.  
Location: 2C[(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Missing dust jacket, red leather cover crumbling, pages yellowed and frayed, ink of inscription faded, water damage.

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
What do you get the most spoiled man on the continent when he’s already got a blond and a brunette?  
Happy Birthday, Bass.  
\- Rachel

**Fall 2020: Bass**

“Noo, don’t get up.” I sound pathetically whiny even to myself as I bear-hug Miles’ arms and legs with my entire body, receiving as punishment an elbow to the solar plexus. “Oof.”

My complaining is interrupted by the domestic clatter and metallic slide of Rachel shifting her silverware. Tea, poached eggs, and stewed tomatoes waft over from where she eats her breakfast at the round table, a book open to her right. Every once in a while, she’ll pause in winding one long, golden strand of hair around her fingers to turn a page, while the other hand busies itself forking eggs between her lips, pinched in concentration. The familiarity of our morning habits makes it feel like the three of us are married. Except at the moment, Miles and I are acting more like teenagers.

“Bass, c’mon! Let me up. I’ve got shit to do,” Miles grouses, trying to maneuver away and catching me with a jagged knee. The bastard’s gangly and sharp, but still I try to relish the hard muscles and fur, knowing they’ll be gone in a moment. Miles hates hanging around in bed, while it’s one of my favorite pastimes. That’s just one of many reasons Miles makes the worst boyfriend in the world. There are also more than a few that make him the best. The sexy way his skin stretches along his rib cage? Goddamn. That goes on the list of the best.

I huff at him, “Can’t you stay in bed with me for a little while and have a lazy Sunday? For once?”

“And do what, Bass? We’ve already fucked this morning. Rachel’s up and at ‘em,” he nods over at her, and she cocks an eyebrow as if to say, _If this is up and at ‘em_... “I wanna go for a ride and patrol the walls.”

“The city’s secure, Zep will wait, and we’ll… oh! I’ll read you this fine book Rachel gave me as a birthday present last spring! I’ve been meaning to start it. You’ll love it. It’s about… um, war - lots of blood and guts!” I assert, grabbing it off my nightstand and reading the cover. My false enthusiasm does little to sway him, but the vice grip of my legs on his thigh does the trick.

“Hate reading. But fine,” is his miserable acquiescence. “Can I have my leg back now, you parasitic prick?”

I sniff at that. Asshole. But I do release him. He kicks one long leg out over the bunched sheets (the one with the scarred knee from Iraq), which I eye for long enough that he lifts his eyebrows at me: _Are you going to read or not?_ I’m just inordinately grateful to have him lounging around with me.

I settle down into the pillows, running my hand over the crusty red leather of the book and scattering dust on the sheets below. When I put my arm around Miles to force him to snuggle, he sinks reluctantly down to my chest to listen, his cheek warm and scratchy. I kiss his whiskey-tinged head in contentment.

Opening to Rachel’s inscription, I call out to her with mild amusement, “Thanks again, Rach!”

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Miles grumbles.

“ _Under Two Flags_ ,” I announce in a dramatic tone. “Chapter 1: Beauty of the Brigades.”

Miles groans long and deep. “You promised blood and guts!”

“Oh hush. Give the brigades a chance to get into battle.”

By the time I get to the word ‘toggery’ two lines in, Miles’ breathing is so even that I fear he’s fallen asleep. I lull him into a state of complacency - my voice growing ever gentler - until I explode with a booming:

“WHEN THE SMOKE,” (Miles yelps and covers his ears) “cleared away that was circling round him out of a great meerschaum bowl, it showed a face of as much delicacy and brilliancy as a woman's; handsome, thoroughbred, languid, nonchalant, with a certain latent recklessness under the impressive calm of habit, and a singular softness given to the large, dark hazel eyes by the unusual length of the lashes over them.”

I glance down at Miles, who is thrashing against my body as if he’s undergoing acute torture. I chuckle, and he tries to snatch away the book. Struggling amid the chaos, I continue:

“His features were exceedingly fair—fair as the fairest girl's; his hair was of the softest, silkiest, brightest chestnut; his mouth very beautifully shaped; on the whole, with a certain gentle, mournful love-me look that his eyes had with them, it was no wonder that great ladies and gay lionnes alike gave him the palm as the handsomest man in all the Household Regiments—not even excepting that splendid golden-haired Colossus, his oldest friend and closest comrade, known as ‘the Seraph’."

Miles succeeds at last in wrenching away the book and nearly snaps it closed on my fingers. I protest, “Hey! It was just getting homo, man. Come on!”

“No amount of listening to you read that shit could make it worth getting to gay sex.”

“Oh there’s no _sex_ in this book; it’s from 1867.”

“Fuck me. I hate you right now.”

Rachel laughs from her table. “What, Miles, you don’t like the gift I got Bass? I had to choose it from a shelf in my room since I can’t exactly go shopping. I’m sorry if it didn’t meet with your high literary standards. After all, it had to be a book I could part with.”

“Hey, _I_ loved it, Rach, it’s just,” I’m wrestling with Miles now and very short of breath, “Miles is a fucking cockfrock! Uh-oww!” He’s practically pulling off my finger trying to get out of a headlock. My bed has devolved into the UFC octagon. I use both my feet to trap my opponent’s calf.

“Fuuuuck!” Miles manages to upend and pin me with an elbow to the ear, suffocating me in my own pillow. “Say mercy, you pansy.”

“Mmmm, haHA!” I’ve flung him off the bed with a twist and a tremendous thud.

“Jesus, you two! Knock that off before someone gets hurt,” Rachel chides.

“I think you sprained my wrist,” Miles complains from the floor, and then I do feel a little guilty. I crawl to the edge of the bed to peer down at him, but I should have known-

Miles hurls me forward off the bed, still tethered to my sheets by an ankle, and smacks me onto his naked body like a pinned bug. He holds me fast, heart pounding beneath my ear, and pants triumphantly, “Works every time on you, Bass.”

“Well I’m sorry if I care about you and don’t want you to get hurt!” I protest passionately, struggling half-heartedly against his lean arms crisscrossed over my chest.

“Aw, you’re just sorry you lost.”

I’m naked and sweaty, pressed up against my boyfriend’s bare body on a languid Sunday. I haven’t exactly _lost_. I crane around into Miles’ lips with a terrific smacking sound. When our tongues begin roughly caressing each other, one of his hands loosens its grip to slide down my abdomen and catch in my wiry hair, just brushing my stiffening cock. His stirring between my ass cheeks tells me-

“And they’re back to sex,” Rachel narrates. Yeah _that._ I turn toward her, delicately forking tomatoes into her mouth and returning to her book, something no doubt much better than the tripe she gave me.

Granted I entirely stop paying attention to what she’s doing when Miles growls in my ear from behind, “I could go another round.”

We scramble up and flop back onto the bed, Miles scooting up against some pillows and opening his legs for me. He yanks me down by the hand between them so that my cheek collides with his strong thigh, enticing pink boner just inches beyond. Yeah, I get the picture, Miles. At first I just tease, dragging my tongue lightly across the tip. But when his skinny stomach contracts in desire, I go down on him indulgently, sucking loudly enough that I’m sure Rachel’s rolling her eyes. Miles pats my hair in appreciation. When I gaze up at his face, he’s looking rather adoringly down at me from beneath dark eyebrows and thick eyelashes.

“That’s my Seraph,” he mutters, and I pop off in shock.

“You listened!”

“Yeah, I listened, babe. Your stupid, scratchy voice gets me all kinds of horny.”

I exhale a contented laugh and nuzzle his erection, kissing around the underside and down his elegant vein. When I check his face again, he’s closed his eyes tightly, craning his neck upward. Yeah, Miles. Christ, even his neck muscles are sinewy and damn hot.

He buries his thick fingers completely in my curls now, forcing my lips to pump him urgently, a drop of bitterness leaking out onto my tongue. Apparently that’s not hard enough, so he cements my head in place and fucks desperately into my mouth, maybe forgetting I have to breathe through there too. Of course, I’m entirely practiced at withstanding Miles’ cock-aggression. I relax and let him drill into the back of my throat again and again, quieting my gag reflex.

My eyes start leaking, but I know we’re right there, because I know everything that happens before Miles comes. His breathing grows shallow, his dark eyelashes start to flutter, his balls clench away from my lips. Sure enough, he’s pumping down my throat, as I moan with my mouth closed on him, swallowing, drool and seed dribbling down my chin. I press a parting kiss to his slit, and he shudders, pulling me up into his expansive arms for a hug.

Grateful Miles makes anything worth it. He cradles my face against his, blindly sucking on my lip and trembling, muttering something sweet I can’t quite discern. It strikes me that we’ve entered the phase in this weird triad where Miles and I are holding less of ourselves back when we make love in front of her. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but that just now was entirely honest - him, brutal then caring, and me, desperate for his attention.

I turn around to sit between his legs, his wet, waning hard-on resting against my butt, and finally register where Rachel is right as he licks his fingers and starts playing with my nuts. In my wrestling match with Miles, we must have knocked the bed against my footlocker, sending the small lacquer box I’d carelessly left on top of it flying to Rachel’s feet. She has stooped to scavenge the debris, studying each piece before returning it.

“Hey, get out of there!” I try to furrow my brow, as Miles traces the seam between my balls and then straight up my shaft. He pauses to lick his hand before pulling on my length nice and tight, calloused thumb swiping over my slit. Uhhhhh. I have to close my eyes as he works his rough palm over the most sensitive part of me just as he knows I like. You’d think we’d be boring to each other after all these years, but we’re more like master conductors of each other’s bodies.

When he re-wets his fingers and curls them around my base, whispering in my ear appreciatively, “Nice cock, Bass,” I melt for him like a virgin on prom night. He knows exactly what to say and when to say it - knows how I love being complimented. Rachel even has to pause, her head snapping up to regard us. I wonder if she’s jealous. One of us usually is.

But she asks me instead, “Baseball cards, Bass, really? You kept them with you through the Blackout?”

“Mmmm,” I attempt to reply as Miles alternates his lazy exploration with a vigorous series of jerks, “not kept - _found_ them in the city.”

With a little sarcastic bite (so, yes, _jealous_ ), she asks, “What, you think you’re going to sell them on eBay?”

Even Miles pauses his tender fingering of my corona to narrow his eyes - I know, because I look back at him in wonder. _Women_. Do they really not understand baseball? What I wouldn’t give for one more afternoon at Wrigley Field. And now, I’m officially craving Goose Island. Fuck, I miss beer.

“It’s baseball, Rachel - I’d never sell my cards. That’s Hank Aaron, you’re talking about. And The Rocket. Don’t mess.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she raises her palms at me in mock contrition and continues her prying. “You used to play in high school right?”

“And college for a bit. Hey, maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m kind of in the middle of getting a hand job here. Could you leave my stuff alone?”

Miles has doused both hands in spit and is really starting to get me worked up, roughing up my balls from below and wringing my shaft above. I suppose I should be more worried about what she might find among my personal belongings, should put a stop to it, but I’m, uh, distracted…

Until I’m not. Because she’s dangling a golden chain that ends in a locket, and Miles and I both know what that is. He immediately drops my dick and slings one heavy arm across my thundering heart. He presses his lips into the top of my head and whispers a soothing, _Shhhh_ , though I haven’t said anything. In fact, I feel numb rather than rattled.

“Hey, Rach, how’s about you _not_ go through Bass’ things?” Miles warns, voice muffled in my hair.

“Oh, sorry. I should have remembered: Nothing I have is mine, but you two get to have all the privacy and secrets in the world.” The edge to her voice is enough to chasten even me. I wonder briefly what she brought with her when she surrendered to us - tokens of her children? She certainly keeps her wedding ring on, which I do find a bit odd. I’ve never asked Miles if it upsets him, considering, hell, he kept that ring in his pocket for Ben to give to Rachel on her wedding day.

My brain is just spinning now, trying to avoid the inevitable topic before it, but the pinch in my chest reminds me it’s out there waiting to drown me. Miles must feel my muscles straining, because he holds me even tighter.

“Everybody gets to have secrets. You have more than your fair share,” Miles tells her in a staid voice.

It’s strange to have Miles defend me against her, to have him speak for me. In our youths, I did much of the talking for him, he was so shy. The reversal feels terribly unnatural, like he thinks I’m going crazy.

Sure enough, he reaches down to turn my face to his, his hands smelling of his own saliva, brown eyes alight with intensity. “You okay, Bass?”

“Mm,” I mumble, the slightest bit miffed that he thinks I can’t handle this.

“Bass!” he reiterates sharply. “You _okay_?”

“I’m fine, Miles. Jesus,” I brush him off. I’m _not_ crazy, I’m just a little shell shocked by the sudden shift in mood.

To prove him wrong (to prove to myself I can do this), I swallow the ball in my throat and scoot down to the foot of the bed, sheets bunching up around my feet, and beckon Rachel over.

“Look inside,” I suggest, trying to sound casual.

When she perches on the edge of the bed, I follow her concerned glance over to Miles, who has leaned back against the pillows again, his arms crossed, face unreadable.

“Oh, it’s the girls!” I hear her say and turn back from Miles to see her examining the miniature photos within the locket.

I nod and hold out my hand to receive it. They were awfully young there - Angie couldn’t be more than one and half with that little top knot in a barrette and Cyn’s got long, lustrous braids. “It belonged to my mother.”

“I’m sorry, Bass, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” I snap it shut. “Maybe it’s a good thing they died when they did, all things considered. They didn’t have to go through what we all did…”

Rachel lays a dainty hand over the locket in mine, tracing my scarred knuckles with a fingertip. “I agree,” she murmurs.

Miles grunts disapproval at the macabre turn our conversation has taken, but I know he’s mainly worried about me. And I’m not ungrateful for that, I’m just determined to show him that I’ve made progress on this. Somehow acting the part is helping me to be strong.

“God, I remember that funeral like it was yesterday,” Rachel says absent-mindedly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Me too, Rachel. Me too. That day we put my family in the ground in Jasper, which seemed so extraordinary at the time, now feels surprisingly congruous sitting here with these two in Philadelphia, post-apocalypse.

“Yeah, it was nice of you to come down with the kids and all even when Ben couldn’t make it.” Well, Ben _could_ have made it, he just chose not to make it a priority. No, I’m not bitter on my behalf, I’m bitter for Miles. Ben knew how close Miles was with my family and how much the accident hurt him too… but that he had to pretend to be okay for me.

_When people die, you bring food to their survivors. Don’t ask me why. I feel like I’ll never be able to eat again. Miles and I are standing like little lost sheep in the kitchen of my childhood home, already surrounded by pies and casseroles, because I suppose there’s to be a wake. Miles muttered something about, ‘People’ll be here in an hour.’ He’s left me out of the planning, thank God, because I’m mentally occupied, vacillating wildly between embarrassing crying and soul-defying hollowness._

_We just got done putting my family in their boxes and covering them up with six feet of dirt, and at this particular moment, pathetic as it is, I’m clinging to Miles’ dress shirt with all ten fingers, lips trembling but no tears falling._

_“Why did you have to wear a tie, Miles? Only ever seen you wear one at Ben’s wedding…” I blather, nonsensically upset at his choice of apparel._

_“I’ll take it off, Bass, I’m sorry,” he apologizes urgently, already clawing at it, trying so valiantly to accommodate my mood swings. That only launches me into a fresh, frenzied wave of gratitude, because I honestly don’t think I could even remain upright without Miles supporting me right now._

_“No, no, I’m sorry, you’re fine-”_

_“No, I’ll take it off! Hate it anyway-”_

_Miles looks like he’s undressing, I suppose, when Rachel walks in, little Charlotte clinging to her skirt, her one-year old boy on her hip, and yet still managing to balance an enormous casserole._

_“Am I interrupting something?” she asks matter-of-factly and without judgment._

_“Wha- no,” Miles mumbles in confusion, as she plunks the pan down on the center island._

_“All right then. Miles, if you’ll watch Charlie for a moment-”_

_The toddler bursts in on her mother’s sentence by flinging herself at Miles’ knees with an “Uncle Miles!” Of course, his bad knee buckles a little, but he scoops her up and hazards a weak smile. He’s uncomfortable with Rachel’s children, but he’s playing it off like a champ given the circumstances._

_Rachel continues, “So if you and Charlie will make sure the drinks are set out, Bass and Danny and I will take care of heating up the food in here.”_

_Miles looks dazed but retreats obediently out of the kitchen, Charlie babbling the whole way about a worm she saw in the garden that she’s apparently considering feeding to her little brother. Meanwhile, Rachel plops the baby down on the floor with a stuffed dragon she produces from her over-sized purse, and then rounds on me. In a moment, her surprisingly strong arms and supple breasts envelope me in a bear hug. She pecks my cheek and whispers, “You just sit down, sweetheart. I’ll take care of everything. Can I get you some water, whiskey, something to eat?”_

_I shake my head and collapse into a barstool, taking in the domestic sounds of Rachel preparing food, so much like my mother that it aches. I’m so out of it that I scarcely register the ebb and flow of guests over the next few hours, but every time I become overwhelmed, Miles or Rachel plays interference for me. I can’t even begin to think about how to thank them for it._

_After the last guest dolefully squeezes my hand and says goodbye, Rachel sets up the kids in front of a TV show and returns to the kitchen, where I’ve resumed my perch on the barstool. She shoves a plate of food in front of me and knits a fork into my fingers, then sets about doing dishes, long purple gloves obscuring creamy skin all the way up to her elbows. Miles pulls out the stool next to me and drapes a hand on my neck._

_I feel his eyes boring into me, as he rubs his fingers where they rest, transmitting warmth and care._

_“Eat your macaroni, Bass,” comes Rachel’s voice, though she doesn’t turn around. “It’s my mother’s special recipe - bacon in it. You’ll love it.”_

_I plunk my head on Miles’ bony shoulder, and he extends his lanky arm all the way around me to squeeze._

_“Or do you want some cake?” she continues, rattling glasses in the sink._

_“Cake?” my voice scrapes, as if it doesn’t recognize the word._

_She turns at that to regard the two of us, her blue eyes bright._ She looks a bit like a harried, 21st century June Cleaver with her blond hair pinned up and my mother’s apron tied around her waist. I squeeze my eyes shut at that realization. _“It’s chocolate fudge. A Mrs. Pearl made it?” she explains._

_“I hate Mrs. Pearl. She gave me like 500 detentions in fourth grade.”_

_“How can you have more detentions than days of the year?” Miles’ voice wearily vibrates into my head from above._

_I shrug. “Mrs. Pearl figured it out. Just trust me on that.”_

_“I was in that class with you, Bass. You had detention twice. With me.”_

_Rachel snorts without laughing. “What did you bad boys do?”_

_Miles lets the weight of his head really dig into my skull. He’s exhausted. Neither of us has gotten more than a few hours sleep over the the last week. Any time I **do** drift off, I wake us both up with my screaming._

_“Oh I was probably just talking to Miles - trying to keep him from staring out the window.”_

_“Miles was a daydreamer, hm? And you a talker? Imagine that.” Again, this would be the normal pause in which one would insert laughter, but none of us bothers._

_Miles has actually slumped down on me hard enough that it’s kind of painful on my neck. I whisper, “Miles, you asleep?” not wanting to part with the physical presence of his body, the only thing anchoring me, but also hoping he’ll ease off a little._

_“Wuh? Nuh.” To my relief, he lifts up his chin ever so slightly._

_“Why don’t you boys just head up to bed? I’ll finish in here. I can swing by tomorrow if you need more help.”_

_“Thanks, Rachel. I- I think we got it. But I apprec-”_

_“It’s my pleasure, Bass. Don’t mention it.”_

Miles leads an army, I head a country, but Rachel? When shit hits the fan, she’s the one who girds her loins and strides into the fray without breaking a sweat. I’m about to tell her how grateful I still am to her after all these years for taking charge at the wake, when she asks from beside me, apparently caught in the same memory:

“Did you ever try Mrs. Pearl’s cake?”

My moment to thank her passes. “Oh yeah. We ate it the next night at about 3am while watching that stupid Nova special. Remember, bud?” I glance at Miles, who is picking at one of his chest hairs.

“Yeah. On whale calls.” His brown eyes drift up to mine.

I see in them that Miles isn’t thinking about that night; he’s thinking about the one before, the one that followed the wake. After Rachel banished us to my room, afterMiles had finally drifted off to sleep, his arms wrapped loosely around my waist, I slipped from his grasp and out of the house, inching the screen door shut so as not to wake him though it creaked eerily in the still night anyway. He found me an hour later by their graves with a gun in my hand.

Yeah, he’s definitely thinking about _that_ night, because when he finally swings his legs off the edge of the bed and speaks again, his tone is soft around the edges. “Hey, you two. Let’s put away the memory box.” Then his eyes fall on my still-naked body, and a devious grin turns up his lips. “I say either we undertake the kind of orgy threesomes are made for, or I’m going for my ride.”

Both of us squint at him in disbelief, but it’s Rachel who chastises, “You just came. Twice. In _two hours_.” 

That’s my Miles. In his utter inability to deal with emotions, he’s happy to provide distraction. The old grief is settling into my crevices, but to hell with it; he’s right. What’s the point of a threesome if not to provide distraction? More bodies, more work, more satisfaction. 

“No, Rachel,” I hold up my hand. “I’ve got to see if this is possible. I’ll admit, there have been a few times when I thought Miles Matheson was quite possibly a superhero. Like at Salem Bend-” 

“What happened at Salem-”

“Best not to ask. It’s why his back looks like swiss cheese. Anyway, let’s do this. I want to see what you’ve got left in you, Matheson.” 

“Well alright then,” Miles agrees with a smirk. 

I walk the necklace back over to the lacquer box, replacing it within my footlocker. I’m trying very hard to concentrate on this moment, not the potential of the past to overwhelm me. Besides, the fact that they were there with methen and they are here with me now is somehow… comforting. I listen to the sounds of Rachel shedding clothes and let myself enjoy the sudden appearance of Miles’ large hand on my stomach from behind me. As part of his effort to distract me, he manhandles me away from the bed and all but flings me to the wall between the windows, kneeing apart my legs and grazing his slightly-chapped lips along the muscles of my shoulders.

Breathing heavily into my ear, he whispers, “You want this?” He’s nudging a few wet fingers in between my butt cheeks. 

Turning over my shoulder, I taste his bottom lip luxuriantly with my tongue. “Yeah.” I can feel him trying to read my eyes, so I close them and deepen our kiss, my neck muscles straining from the odd angle. 

He breaks away, a little thread of saliva temporarily tethering us, and then sinks down to his knees to relax me. One hand reaches around to work my rousing cock, while the other opens me with soothing circles. I grunt, slapping a palm against the wall as he enters me with his middle finger, driving inward to hit that bundle of nerves that makes my legs wobble. Tension I didn’t know I was carrying falls away in waves. 

At last he stands, and I sense him pumping himself behind me, his wet cock spreading my ass and burning against my entrance. He pulls me back a little by the waist, sprawling fingers settling across my twitching abdominal muscles. There’s achy pressure - almost too much - and then he slides in, hard, familiar, hot. Jesus. 

I brace myself on the wall with both hands now, as he continues to steady me at the middle with one hand, the other guiding his dick back in when it accidentally slips out. I grind backwards into him, gritting my teeth against a whimper. 

All of a sudden, a smooth, small hand closes around my bicep. I’m so ragged and undone, that I can’t speak; I just put my other hand on top of hers and squeeze. Through a cracked eye, I see that she’s fully undressed, smiling at me. Unlike Miles, she seems less intent upon scrutinizing me for signs of unraveling, having never witnessed me in my worst moments. I appreciate her for that. 

She ducks under my stretched arm to thread herself between me and the wall, and I smile against the lips she presses into mine. Apparently she’s come prepared, because she rips open a foil packet and reaches down for my dick, squeezing it once and then unrolling the rubber down its length. 

I pulse under her fingers, as Miles pauses his thrusting for us to arrange our bodies. I have to bend a bit awkwardly at the knees, but she manages to bury my cock in her soft folds. Then we embark on the awkward rhythm of three entangled bodies in a standing fuck, Miles driving me forward into her, as she stretches up onto her toes. I leave one hand anchored against the wall by her cheek, while I press my thumb into her clit with the other. 

I try to give her a nice, circular pressure, my cock jabbing upward at her inner wall, and she digs her fingers into my arms - little painful points of pressure - as she tries to steady herself. My legs are beginning to shake from trying to angle into her, and Miles must notice, because he starts guiding me downwards to the floor. Rachel remains entangled with us, her arms maneuvering under mine to hold me fast.

I’m on all fours now on the hardwood, Rachel beneath me, my fists planted to either side of her face, and Miles inching back into me until his balls thwack gently against my skin. He spreads his hand over my lower back, warming it, claiming me. I’ve long since slipped out of Rachel, but she’s not forgotten me, reaching up with her clever fingers to work off the condom and wring me out.

“Uhhhh, fuck,” I gasp, because Miles is going on forever, and Rachel is a fucking genius, and I’m ridiculously, slack-jawed grateful to them. My muscles clench without warning, and then I’m splashing onto her dark curls beneath me and filling the soft indent of her bellybutton. 

Miles draws out of me and I turn over to face him, my back sinking down into the squish of Rachel, head pressed to her stomach, while Miles jerks himself on me. I’m surprised he manages, but he does: the minutest bit of seed trickling down my ribs and onto the floor. His tongue just peeks out from between his lips in exhausted euphoria. 

I tug him down onto me, as he groans, letting his grizzled cheek rest against my pec. 

“You can go for that ride now,” I inform him. 

“Mhm sleep,” he mumbles incoherently.

My shoulders shake in silent laughter, as the sweetness of Rachel and whiskey of Miles envelope me. Rachel’s hands soothingly trace the muscles of my biceps, resting on her hips, while Miles drools a little on my chest. 

Yeah, most days I’m glad Miles took the gun from me in that graveyard, but it’s best not to dwell on it too much, you know? Because this feels good, what we’re doing here, but there’s also something perverse in it. The Blackout sucked all the innocence out of the world so that every pleasure now reeks slightly of the sinister. I _am_ glad that’s something my family never had to experience, especially the girls. They can stay in my mother’s locket forever, pure and frozen in a better time.


	17. Dr. Ashu Arora’s Medical Journal, Summer 2021

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have to apologize for the long wait on this one: it was a rough chapter to write, just as I imagine it will be an emotional chapter to read. This one isn't pretty, but it is the uncomfortable truth about these three and the nature of their relationship.
> 
> Thanks to all our loyal readers for your patience!

 

  
**Archaeological Site Inventory Record**

 

Date: July 14, 2044  
Site Name: Independence Hall, Philadelphia, The Sovereign State of Pennsylvania  
Field Assistant: Kendra Chang  
Field Coordinates:

  * Latitude: 39.948876
  * Longitude: -75.150024
  * Distance from Bomb Site: 6,207 ft



**Excavated Material**  
Type:  
x Artifact:  Dr. Ashu Arora’s Medical Journal, Summer 2021  
□ Feature: _____________

Description: Leatherbound journal, 5x7 inches, Lined paper  
Location: 3A [(Corresponding Floorplan)](http://i1368.photobucket.com/albums/ag190/ratpack10/independencehallupstairs_zps24820894.jpg)  
Condition of Excavated Material: Some fading and wrinkles, water stains along left edge, brown smudge (possibly coffee) in upper right portion of page

**Transcript of Written Document:**  
  
May 24, 2021 Patient: Dr. Rachel Matheson   
Patient suffered fall from horse resulting in:   
\- contusions on arms, lower back  
\- sprained ankle, iced and wrapped  
\- laceration on scalp, no stitches necessary but applied comfrey salve   
\- cervix dilation, bleeding, and uterine cramping indicates miscarried pregnancy, 4-6 weeks along; performed D&C prescribed raspberry leaf tea twice a day, one week bedrest

**Summer 2021: Rachel**

My head is throbbing when I wake up and my mouth feels dry, the sheets pressed hard into my skin like I’ve slept poorly. I open my eyes slowly, rubbing at them, and my bedroom comes into a bleary sort of focus. The curtains are drawn, heavy fabric blocking out the windows though a narrow beam of sunlight outlines each, and the hurricane lamp on my nightstand flickers quietly.

Someone is standing at the other end of the room and at first I think it’s Miles but then he turns towards me and I realize it’s Doctor Arora, a notebook in his hands. He folds it gently shut and gives me a small smile. “Well look who’s awake.”

I hear myself groan and roll onto my side to face him, pressing fingertips against my forehead. “What happened?” My voice is raspy and I feel sick to my stomach. The last thing I remember, we were… I search my hazy memories for a moment before landing on the lake. We were swimming at the lake. Bass wrapped me up in a Militia uniform and let me out for the day and we all three went to the lake. I nearly blush at the thought of what we did there, of Miles’ face buried between my thighs and Bass lapping at my breasts, right out there in the afternoon sunlight where anyone could have seen.

But then… nothing.

“You fell off your horse,” the doctor murmurs, moving to sit in the armchair that’s pulled up alongside the bed as if someone has been sitting there recently.

_Yes. I fell off my horse, the beautiful champagne Miles just bought_. She reared and I remember terror and then just black.

“God, my head is pounding.”

“I’m not surprised. You took a pretty nasty fall.” He leans in to help me up against the pillows before passing me a steaming cup of something off the nightstand. “Here, drink this.”

I sniff at it suspiciously because although his homeopathic remedies are often miracle cures, they usually taste terrible. “What is it?”

He pauses in adjusting the pillows before answering. I wonder what that’s about. “Raspberry leaf tea.”

Sipping at it carefully, I find it’s not bad after all and settle back, eyes drifting shut. I’m not meant to rest just yet though, it seems, because he clears his throat and folds his hands in front of him on the edge of the bed. “There’s something else, Dr. Matheson.”

I peek my eyes open in reluctance, my stomach cramping terribly all of a sudden. “What?”

“When you fell,” Arora pauses to draw a deep breath, “you did hit your head but, I’m afraid you’re also suffering a miscarriage.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in before the awful cramps, the slight stickiness between my thighs, even the tea, all suddenly makes sense. I must be staring blankly at him in shock because he cautiously reaches out to lay a hand on my arm. “Did you know you were pregnant?”

My eyes feel raw and my skin is suddenly clammy. “Oh my god. No. No.”

“It’s hard to say, but I’d guess you were no more than six weeks along.”

“We always tried to be so careful.” It’s out in a whisper before I can stop myself and I flush, embarrassed, horrified. “I’m going to be sick,” I mumble and before I can think about it any further, he’s removed the cup from my hands and replaced it with a bedpan. He holds my hair back while I empty my stomach of what little I had for breakfast, an indeterminable number of hours ago, and when I lift my head, there are hot tears welling up in my eyes.

“I can’t believe this is happening again.” I sound nearly as miserable as I feel, my voice raspy and cracked.

Doc smoothly removes the pan and hands me a cup of water to rinse my mouth out with before passing the tea back. He really is an exceptional doctor, as kind and gentle with each man who passes through his tent as he’s being right now with me. He dips a cloth into the washbasin and wrings it out, laying the cool, damp fabric against my forehead. “Have you ever miscarried before?”

Shaking my head, I flash for a moment to the terror of Danny’s pregnancy and the way he fit in Ben’s hand when he was first born. “No. Other complications though.”

That isn’t what I meant by ‘again’ though. I sip at my tea, vaguely remembering something about it being good for bleeding and having to quell the urge to be sick again. Twice in my life, I haven’t known who the father of my child is.

A tear slides down my cheek. Miles or Bass. How would either of them handle a baby? It doesn’t matter, exactly, but I fixate on it anyway. Miles was always awkward with the kids but they loved him so much more than he understood. I can only imagine him with a tiny newborn in those big hands of his. Bass would be a good dad too though. That intense loyalty focused on a child might actually be the only healthy relationship he’s capable of.

I’m distracted for a moment by the thought of them, gentled by fatherhood, but after the initial haze passes, the horror sets in and I sit nearly straight up in bed. “Oh god. What did you tell them?”

“That you are suffering an abdominal hemorrhage and that you’ll be fine but they aren’t to disturb you.”

My shoulders slump in relief and I sink back into the pillows. I can only imagine how either of them would react to this. “Thank god. Thank _you_.”

“Of course. You should know, the President is very attuned to these sorts of things. He’s already suspicious.”

I nod absently, staring into my cooling cup. “I’d rather they never know but it’s probably better for them to get it from me. I’m sorry to drag you into all of this.”

“If you choose not to tell them, they will never hear it from me. But-” he appears to hesitate, laying a hand over mine on the bed. “ _Is_ there anyone you can talk to, if you need to? Please don’t bottle this up, Dr. Matheson. I can only treat your physical symptoms, but this could take an emotional toll if you allow it to.”

There’s no one, and surely he knows that, but I know he doesn’t mean to be insensitive, not in the slightest. I try for a weak smile and fail. “Just Morella.”

He darts a glance at the little cat in the window and sighs. “I need you to do a few things for me at least, all right?” Arora waits for me to look up before gesturing at the tea. “Two cups a day for the next few weeks. I’ve left instructions with Molly, though no explanations; she’ll be sure to get it for you. Bedrest for a week and I expect you to take it easy for a while. No sex for at least three weeks. You’re going to experience bleeding, probably for a couple of weeks. Hopefully nothing too heavy but I’m going to check in on you regularly so we’ll see.”

“Thank you, doctor. For everything.” I clasp my hands tighter on the cup, trying not to think about, well, about anything.

He stands, gathering his notebook and the small leather bag he always carries with him but pauses at my bedside. “You’re strong, Rachel. Just give your body time to heal.”

Tears fill my eyes again and I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He gestures to the cup, murmuring, “Remember, the tea,” and then he’s stepping out into the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

My cheeks are wet and I set the cup on the nightstand, though I know I should finish it, and bury my head in my pillow. Chest tight and arms crossed over my stomach, I cry deep, gut-wrenching sobs. In between them, I irrationally pray that no one is in the office, that no one can hear me, because I can’t deal with being this much of a victim.

Their prisoner? I turned myself in, and I had my reasons.

Their lover? There’s only so much loneliness a person can handle and even that excuse doesn’t change the fact that I have real feelings for both Miles and Bass, though in rather different ways.

But carrying a child that belongs to one of them, the _heir apparent_ to their little kingdom? No, that’s a loss of agency I can’t bear to consider. Worse is the idea of what might have happened if I _had_ gone to term. I shudder to think: the three of us are barely fit for each other, let alone a baby.

Three weeks pass. At first, the boys stop in with tea and sweets, hovering over me, but I honestly can’t bear to look either of them in the eye. Finally, they take my numerous irritable hints and leave me more or less alone. I’m not sure if the guilt and grief of their constant presence was worse or the crushing loneliness, knowing I’ve pushed them away, but some days are better than others. Today… today is not a good day. I tossed and turned all night, dreaming of Charlie and Danny and the little boy or girl I never even knew was mine until it was too late. There’s a knock at my door, the first sound I’ve heard all day. I’ve had the curtains drawn since last night, blocking out as much light as possible.

I draw the covers up over my head in hopes that Bass and Miles or Doc or whoever it is will just go away if I don’t answer.

“Rachel? Babe. It’s me.” Miles’ voice is muffled through the door and he knocks again.

I sigh, ruffling the sheet before pulling it down far enough to speak. “Come back tomorrow. I don’t feel well.” It isn’t exactly a lie.

The door creaks open anyway and Miles peeks in at me. “Rach, I-” Something like _pity_ crosses his face though I can’t imagine where that’s coming from and he steps inside, closing the door behind him. He sinks onto the edge of the bed and immediately starts to tug at his boot laces, like I’ve been expecting him. I don’t even have the energy to narrow my eyes at him so I just watch as he tosses his boots aside and crawls in beside me, tugging me back against his chest.

I swallow hard, not sure I’m quite ready for this.

“Jeremy told me. Well… Molly told him,” he says as if that explains everything.

“Told you what?” I mumble, just wanting to go back to hiding under the covers.

“Rachel… _a baby._ I’m so… shit, I’m so sorry.” Miles strokes his large hand over my hair, easing through the tangles there.

I freeze, feeling sick to my stomach. “No. No, no. If I wanted you to know, I’d have told you myself!”

He kisses my crown, and I can practically feel the crease form between his eyes. “Of course you should tell me. Just not Bass.”

“ _No_ , Miles. I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want _anyone_ to know.” Tears prick at my eyes and I blink them back. I feel like I’m constantly on the verge of crying right now. “Why did you have to pry?”

“Because I… Jesus, you didn’t get into this alone. You shouldn’t go through it alone.” His arms tighten around me, lips brushing my cheek.

“Who knows if it was even yours?” I snap, though the guilt immediately settles on my shoulders.

“Rachel. I don’t care about that,” he says urgently. “I deserted you last- It doesn’t matter. We’re both here for you. But I’m serious, Bass can’t know the real reason, okay?”

I lie there in his arms in the dark for long heartbeats, his breath warm and damp on my skin, before finally rolling over to face him. “Why not?” I ask softly, resting a hand on his chest.

Miles pauses, that look he always gets when we talk about Bass crossing his face. “Please just trust me. He can’t know.”

It’s not as if I _want_ Bass to know but I can’t imagine our reasons are the same. “Fine.” I’m being unnecessarily sharp with him, I know. But I can’t control my moods any better than if I were still pregnant. He draws his rough fingertips over my cheek, and he kisses me, lips as familiar as the worn pages of my favorite book.

When he finally breaks away, he rests his forehead on mine and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “How do you feel?”

“I’m fine.” It doesn’t sound like it and I certainly haven’t been acting like it. But I _will_ be fine. “I- I want to be fine.”

Miles strokes his big hand over my hair, thumb caressing the apple of my cheek. His eyes are dark and heavy with guilt and… grief? “Come on, Rach. I’m here for you this time.” His voice hitches and he pulls me closer, like he can’t bear to have me even a few inches away.

“ _This_ time?” I almost laugh before recognizing the sincerity in his face. I honestly don’t know if he is Charlie’s father but maybe he’s spent more time wondering about it than I ever gave him credit for. A sigh escapes me and I stroke my fingers over his cheek. “I know you are. I just don’t know what there is to say. I’m… I’m heartbroken, of course I am. But how would we feel if the pregnancy had lasted?” I can’t bring myself to say ‘this is for the best’ aloud because even I don’t quite believe it. Some part of me still wants to hold that baby.

“I’d be ecstatic. Bass would too, he just… well. The baby’s gone, so it doesn’t matter now.” Miles’ face pales and he fumbles for something less harsh: “Shit, I didn’t mean… I’m not good at this, Rachel. I would have loved our baby, okay? His, ours… I would have loved that baby.”

I can’t control the tears this time. “How, Miles? How could we possibly have had a baby? Three people who can barely hold themselves together.”

“We would have figured it out? I don’t know. We’ve figured each other out, haven’t we?”

“ _Have_ we?” I whisper, choking on the question. “These past couple of weeks, I just keep imagining what that would have been like and I want to believe that we could do it, raise a baby together. But it’s a fantasy, isn’t it? All of this is a twisted fantasy.”

“Maybe but… I wanted it anyway. Always did.”

I stare up at him with wide eyes, probably red-rimmed and bloodshot, before clenching a hand tightly in his shirt. “I did too, once. But you, me and Bass, we are _not_ a family. However it might feel sometimes.”

“It’s not a _normal_ family but who is anymore? I… Rach, I don’t always know what I want. But I _do_ know I want both of you.” He runs a hand over his face, tongue darting out on his lips the way it always does when he’s frustrated or stymied or emotional.

I reach up for his hand, guilt temporarily overpowering any other emotion. He’s wrong, we’re more than _abnormal_ , but I might not be entirely right either. “I’m sorry you and I have never worked. Maybe we always needed Bass. Maybe this baby would have been a good thing.” That’s delusional but maybe it’s what we both need. Squeezing his large hand in mine, I draw it down under the covers and nestle closer to him.

His thick fingers spread out on my stomach and for the first time I feel pregnant, as unhealthy as that probably is. I’ve stood in the mirror practically every day, smoothing my hands over the relatively unchanged curves of my body, unable to imagine it full and flush with pregnancy again. But here, like this, with Miles touching me like I might shatter, I can’t help picturing it. Can’t help the tiny twinge of want I feel for a life together, a baby between us nuzzling at my breast and Miles’ arms around us both.

And then I can’t help the stab of guilt for betraying the family I already have, for leaving my own babies behind. Or, for that matter, the guilt I feel for having the luxury of wallowing in my grief: most women in our world have to pick right back up after losing a baby and go back to caring for whatever remains of their family. It’s my fault they have to live like that, and yet here I am comfortably wrapped in bed, free to cry and sleep and feel sorry for myself.

Miles must sense me drifting because he tips my chin up for a kiss, his tongue questing along my lips until I let him in and then he’s deep and searching, like he’s looking for the most broken pieces of me. He rolls me gently onto my back, the thin sheets whispering over us as I cling to him, his kiss as deep and distracting as it’s most likely meant to be. Miles presses soft kisses along my jaw, down my throat, between my breasts and just when I think he’s going to disappear beneath the covers, he tosses the sheet back and rests his head on my stomach.

“I-” He flushes, dark eyes closing as he listens to the faint rhythm of blood in my veins. “I always wanted to touch you when you were pregnant. I mean- _Shit_ -”

This time the tears spring forth in a flood, set off by a hair-trigger, pouring down my cheeks, and my lungs feel abruptly strangled. I clap a hand over my mouth, but Miles is already drawing me into his arms, crushing me to his chest. This is what he’s been expecting, I suppose, me to just lose it. I’ve been crying for weeks but not like this, not with someone to cry _on_. I’ve learned to be strong since coming to Philly, since the Blackout, since almost losing Danny, since Miles walked away from me all those years ago. But Miles is offering me a temporary out from being ‘strong’ and for once, I’m taking it.

I don’t know how long I cry on his shoulder, but he just lies there, rubbing my back until my sobs have subsided. A sense of exhaustion settles over me but also relief: I needed this.

“I should let you get your rest,” he murmurs finally, kissing my forehead and starting to pull back. He’s half out of bed by the time my hand lands on his wrist.

“No. Please.” Miles glances down at me and this time I understand the pity in his eyes though I don’t appreciate it any more than I did. “Hold me?” I sound pathetic even to my own ears but I need him right now. I didn’t realize I needed him until he barged in on me but I do.

He sinks back onto the mattress, fingers nimbly loosening his buckle and buttons and pulling his pants off before he curls back around me. Miles brushes the backs of his fingers over my cheek, skin tight with dried tears. “I’m so sorry, Rachel,” he whispers. “Wish I could make it stop hurting.”

There’s a cruel little part of me that asks if Miles has ever been able to stop the hurt, that points out how much _better_ he is at making me hurt, but it’s not fair. As much pain as we’ve caused each other, being with Miles never fails to make me glad I have him, in whatever small way.

I lean in close, lips barely touching his. “I know you do,” I whisper, and he wraps his arms around me, kissing the top of my head.

“You’ll get through this. You’re strong, Rachel,” he murmurs. It’s almost exactly what Doc said to me, and though I know it’s true, it still feels hard to believe. These past three weeks have crawled by so slowly, it feels like trudging through endless sand.

“Surviving is not necessarily strength,” I object dryly, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He’s so warm and solid, it’s really no wonder Bass is always clinging to him. We lie in my bed until Miles is nearly asleep, his lips parted against my temple and his arms around me. He’s never been keen on bed for anything but sleeping and sex so I know what a gesture it is that he’s willing to just _be_ here with me. I stroke my fingertips along his side in silent thanks, dipping beneath the edge of his t-shirt to the bare, scarred skin stretched over his hipbone.

He lets me touch him, for a while, but then he’s shifting uncomfortably, cracking an eye open at me. “Rachel.”

“What?” I lift my head, my own lids heavy with almost-sleep as well. “Just want to touch you.”

Miles glances away at that, never convinced he’s as beautiful as Bass and I find him. “You should rest.”

But I want him, suddenly. I suppose some part of me always wants Miles, wants to burrow into his strong arms and hide from all the horrible things we’ve both done. I haven’t felt the slightest desire for either of them since I woke up from the accident, but here in bed with Miles, cried out and exhausted, I want to feel him in me. Tipping my head back, I seal my lips over his and he groans, arms tightening instinctively. He tucks me more firmly into his side, rolling me almost under him before breaking away, panting softly against my mouth.

“We shouldn’t. You need your rest.”

“The doctor said three weeks. You aren’t going to break me, Miles,” I promise in a whisper, drawing my fingers over his stubbly cheek. I don’t say please, don’t beg, don’t ask him to _make love to me_ or _make me forget_. But he understands anyway.

He doesn’t agree, I know, thinks he needs to protect me now. But he ducks his head to kiss me anyway, planting hands on either side of my head and dipping his tongue in my mouth. He always tastes like whiskey but today he tastes like the expensive stuff, the one he only gets into on especially grief-ridden occasions. I tug on his t-shirt, white cotton twisted up in my hands, until he shifts onto his knees, yanking the shirt off over his head.

Miles is covered in scar tissue and dark fur and I run my fingers over his sides, counting the ribs there, his muscles shivering under my touch. He cups my cheek and I let my eyes drift shut, almost smiling, though I sort of want to cry again too. I can feel the ever-present tears hot just beyond my eyelids and so I squeeze them shut tighter, spreading my knees on either side of him beneath the thin sheet. The fabric whispers above us as he carefully unbuttons my silky top and lays me open to the weight of warm, stifling air and dark eyes.

My nipples peak, his palm ghosting over them each in turn, and I arch up under him, just enough to encourage him. Miles hooks his fingers in my pajama pants and panties and drags them all off together so they tangle somewhere under the covers. His cock is hard through his boxers and brushes my thigh temptingly. Peeking my eyes open, my lashes flutter, sleepy, and I watch his throat bob in hesitation.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a near-whisper, and I nod, wrapping my hands around the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” I breathe, straining up for an open-mouthed kiss, the tip of my tongue sliding along his. Miles shudders, sinking deeper onto me, and he finally kicks off his boxers, as if he’s only just now decided to go through with this.

The dark hair on his chest brushes my cheek as he leans over to retrieve a condom from the nightstand. As much as I’d like to feel his skin on mine, he’s right to be cautious: that’s how we got into this mess to begin with. I relax my shoulders and my hips, melting into the mattress under him as he rolls the condom on and settles between my legs. His weight is so familiar, it’s like lying under the stars at night, the scars and freckles that dot his skin forming persistent constellations.

He draws two fingers between my legs, finding me ready but not dripping, and though I whine my protest, slides his fingertips up to curl inside me. My protest quickly dissolves into a moan of desire, for _more_ , and he muffles the sound with his mouth on mine, drinking in whatever sounds spill off my lips. I think for a moment that he’s only trying to quiet me, in case Bass comes home, but then he digs into a particularly sensitive spot inside me and I’m writhing under him, not really caring why.

Miles pulls his fingers back, glistening, and I wind my arms around his neck, panting in complaint and eagerness, as he holds my hips in his big, wide hands. I sink teeth into my lip as he’s sliding inside me, my eyes slamming shut of their own accord. It pinches a bit at first, my body still strained and tense from the accident, but Miles rubs soothing circles into my shoulders until I relax a fraction. He lifts my thigh up over his hip as gently and tenderly as he seems able to manage and buries his head between my breasts, his thrusts agonizingly slow and luxuriant.

“Are you all right?” he whispers to the delicate skin beneath my ear. I nod fiercely, my knees falling aside to the mattress as he rocks into me.

“Yes- _yes_. Oh, Miles-”

He tips my head back, fingers coursing along my cheek and jaw and into my hair, his eyes boring into mine to the point I feel out-of-body, as worked up by his intense stare as I am by his cock twitching diligently inside me. I reach up, one hand fisting in his hair, and he slides his free hand between the bed and the smooth skin of my back, both of us clinging to the other.

I’m honestly not sure which of us comes first, but I’m impossibly grateful for how he drags me under with him, overwhelming enough to drown out my thoughts. I collapse deeper into the pillows, trembling, sweat beading on my forehead.

“So beautiful,” Miles whispers, his tip still clenched tight inside me as he sweeps a hand over my cheek. He cleans us both up, the energy drained out of me as I drift into a light, dreamless sleep.

It must be several hours later when I finally blink my eyes open, something not yet identified rousing me in the dark bedroom. I lay there in the warm cocoon of my bed, covers pulled up over my naked body, before it dawns on me that Miles is missing, his side of the bed cool and empty. It’s only then I realize what woke me: the sound of angry, hushed voices on the other side of the door.

I sigh, running a hand over my face and roll over to pour myself a glass of water. It felt good, better than good, to let Miles, for lack of a better word, make love to me this afternoon and some part of me feels rejuvenated, emotionally energized. But that doesn’t change the fact that I lost a baby, nor the fact that I honestly don’t know who the father was. It _bothers_ me, not knowing. I didn’t want to know with Charlie, because there was always a chance she was the product of my cruelty to Ben. I loved Miles then, of course I did, but what we did was still wrong.

This is different. I don’t love Bass, not like that. But I care deeply about him, even as malicious as I know he can be, and I’d like to believe he cares about me too. At the very least, I want to think he would love our child. He’d be a good father, given a proper chance, and I find maybe I’m not averse to the idea of giving him that chance. Of giving Miles that chance.

This baby, whoever its father was, it was conceived by all of us, in a way. We weren’t tiptoeing around behind each other’s backs. Rather, we were probably all three wrapped up together when it happened, and something about my talk with Miles makes me want to throw off the shame and misery I’ve felt these past weeks. It doesn’t change anything, I have no illusions about us working in the real world or raising a child together and the not knowing still prickles at me, but perhaps Doc was right: perhaps I need to talk about it.

Tossing the covers back, I lift myself out of bed and snatch the cotton robe from its hook, sipping at my glass. I shrug my robe on, grateful for the cold water, Bass’ extravagant ice cubes a perk of Philadelphia. I lean a shoulder against the double doors, running a finger over the crack between them, and listen in carefully, trying to decide if it’s an argument I want to interrupt.

I just barely catch, “...fuck is wrong with you? You’ve been avoiding me for weeks…” Bass’ voice is low and dangerous, though he’s more frightening when he’s amenable.

“Have not,” Miles replies, and I can just picture him pouring himself a drink, thanks to the clink of glasses, ice and decanter.

“Just ‘cause _Rachel_ doesn’t want sex, doesn’t mean _we_ can’t,” Bass snaps and I flinch at that, bombarded by how much I’ve come between them, how much it bothers me to share Miles with Bass, how much _more_ it really should bother me.

Miles is mumbling and I can’t quite make out what he responds but Bass doesn’t seem to take kindly to it, if the crashing and cursing that follows is anything to judge by. Enough is enough. I fling the door open for the first time in three weeks, hand on my hip and the robe gaping at my breast.

The boys are standing at each other’s throats, broken glass at their feet and Miles towering over Bass with a pained look in his eyes that I know Bass blames me for. These past weeks have been difficult, and I know Miles has been distracted, worrying about me. Perhaps I _should_ have told them the truth sooner. Perhaps Bass deserves the truth now, whatever Miles thinks about that.

“Walk away, Rachel,” Bass is growling at me, fist clenched at his side. “Just stay out of this one.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Miles shoots back, one hand clenched in Bass’ jacket like he’s torn between tearing it off or throwing him back.

“Neither of you heard me come in earlier today, did you? You were too busy having your private Barry White moment to even notice me at the door-”

“You were watching us? You son of a bitch-”

I’m barefoot so I don’t step between them, glass crunching under their boots, but I do slam my glass down on the side table, each of them looking about ready to take a swing at the other. “ _Enough_. If you think Miles and I never have sex without you, you’re an insecure child, Bass. I suppose I’m just supposed to _deal_ knowing you two screw across the hall on a regular basis.”

Perhaps it’s overly harsh but I still don’t expect him to whirl around, one of those graceful hands out, every intention of slapping me. Miles lunges to stop him but he didn’t have to worry: Bass snatches his hand back to his side long before he ever would have made contact. Still, I’ve already ducked, braced for impact, and Miles’ face is so red, I’m worried he’s going to burst a couple of capillaries.

Bass’ hands shake and he looks so immediately contrite and horrified, I let my shoulders relax, let him in when he reaches for me. His arm wraps around my waist and his free hand dives in beneath the curtain of blond hair, those long beautiful fingers squeezing at my jaw. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers. Bass’ emotions have always gotten the better of him but it’s been worse lately, heightened, like he’s grown more distrustful and more intensely rash when we weren’t looking.

I glance at Miles over his shoulder to find him practically trembling, dark eyes skittering away from mine, and he looks so angry, so… I can’t quite put my finger on it: dismayed? Terrified? Grief-stricken? I’m not even sure whether he appears so emotional over me or over Bass, let alone which emotion he’s really feeling.

Drawing my fingers over the back of Bass’ hand on my cheek, his forehead still resting against mine, I murmur, “Bass, there’s something I think you should know.”

Miles’ gaze finally snaps back to mine at that and he mutters a warning, “Rachel.”

“What is it?” he whispers, pulling back just far enough to meet my eyes, thumb stroking my cheekbone.

“The accident, when I fell off the horse.”

“ _Rachel_.” Miles sounds desperate now, and maybe I should have heeded his advice, but it was such a surprising relief to have him know the truth, I find myself yearning for it to be the same with Bass.

“It wasn’t a hemorrhage that caused all the bleeding,” I murmur, staring straight into Bass’ Texas sky-blue eyes. I draw a deep breath through my nose, steadying myself. “It was a miscarriage.”

He just stares at me, open-mouthed, shocked. I’m not sure I’ve really ever seen him speechless before. He staggers backward, glass underfoot, and wheels around toward Miles.

“You…” his mouth gapes open in disbelief. “You knew all this time. How could you?” His words to Miles seem wildly out of context.

Miles stands there with his hands planted on his hips and shakes his head. “Bass, no. It wasn’t… I _didn’t_ know. Not until today.”

“So that’s why the private little moment together? You were _mourning_ the baby you always wanted with her, Miles?”

Miles shakes his head and mouths _fuck_ , like he can’t believe Bass would divulge his secret. But he holds himself together. “Bass, don’t do this in front of her. She’s not well.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” I slam my water glass down on Bass’ desk and it sloshes out onto the mahogany surface. “I am just _fine_ , thank you very much. And if this is a conversation we need to have, I want to have it out _right_ now, you-”

Bass interrupts like he wasn’t even listening and if the glazed look on his face is anything to judge by, he probably wasn’t. “What a complete ass I was thinking I was ever really part of this relationship! All you two ever wanted was each other.” Bass’ eyes shimmer with emotion as they dart back and forth between us. As insulted as I was a moment ago, it feels like he’s got a hand around my heart, squeezing. He looks so heartbroken, so lost, and for no reason: Miles will always love him, is even willing to say it aloud when he’s never said it once to me, and I… I _care_. Doesn’t he see that?

“Bass, no-” I grab at his arm, fingers not quite closing around his bicep. “That’s not true.” Abruptly, I find that it really isn’t: after all this time, I can scarcely imagine Miles without Bass, one without the sensory contrast of the other.

“Bass. Stop this. Just calm down.”

“Calm down? Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy, Miles! You’ve been replacing me with her day by day for two years now. And look at you both, devastated that you’ve lost the key to your fucking little family.”

“A family? We _have_ a family. You’re our family,” Miles says half in derision, half in what sounds unsettlingly like sorrow, as if he really is affected by the loss of something we could never have had anyway.

“Go to hell. Both of you!” Bass stalks to the door, fuming, though he seems as hurt as he does angry.

His fingers are just closing around the doorknob, ready to jerk it open, when Miles calls his name in gruff exasperation. Bass only hesitates though and then he’s gone anyway, slamming the door behind him. Miles’ vexed and worried brown eyes fall on me just as I’m about to open my mouth, to apologize or at least plead for answers. With a minute shake of his head, he warns, “Leave this to me.”

“Wh-”

“Don’t,” his voice cuts sharply into mine as if he’s about to rebuke me for causing this in the first place, but then he forcibly softens it, “Don’t ask questions about this, Rachel. I can’t tell you. It’s bad. But none of it’s your fault. Don’t… don’t take it personally. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I...” He buries his face briefly in his hand then repeats more to himself, “Christ. It’s bad.

He appears to regain his composure and strides for the door, every muscle in his body tight. “Watch the glass, Rachel.”

Now both boys are gone and the office feels somehow profoundly empty, like we’ve played our last round without realizing it.


End file.
